


playing on

by flybbfly



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: M/M, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-03-01 18:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 142,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13301118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flybbfly/pseuds/flybbfly
Summary: "Who knew California Golden Boy Jeremy Knox could play dirty?”Jeremy grins. “Best kept secret on the west coast. Told you there was a western division striker who could dispossess you.”“On a practice court, maybe," Jean says. "Try to get it away from me during a game.”Jeremy leans back, bracing himself on gloved hands. “Luckily, I won't ever have to.”In which Jean Moreau and Jeremy Knox play exy, share a dorm room, and accidentally insult each another a lot.





	1. loss

**Author's Note:**

> general AFTG warnings for references to past abuse and current mental illness apply. as always, feel free to [message me](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com/ask) if you have any questions.
> 
> update: if you're interested in the music that inspired this fic (slight, subtle spoilers might show up if you listen to parts 2 or 3 before reading parts 2 and 3), [here are the apple music playlists](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com/post/177344366493/hi-i-love-you-and-youre-honestly-such-an) and [here are the youtube playlists](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com/post/177374183333/can-you-make-them-youtube-playlists)

**part i: justice**

  


The Trojans lose their first game of the season. 

It's probably Jeremy's fault: he convinced Rheman to put them on for full halves, and despite a full summer's training and conditioning, despite most of the team running fifty miles a week since the end of their season, despite lifting and scrimmaging and drills—full halves are really fucking hard.

At first it's fine: typical Trojan domination plus Jean in defense. Jean in action is incredible, the kind of player Jeremy has always loved having on his own team, vicious and obsessed with winning but—Jeremy noted ten minutes into the first half when the Stanford attack tried to goad Jean into an illegal position—carefully, carefully in line with the rules of the game. He was always good for the Ravens, but he's better now. Maybe, Jeremy thinks, because he's never played without injury before.

At first, it's fine. They score a goal in the first five minutes, Katie rocketing back to the center to clack her stick against Shereen's. Laila makes a good save. Stanford are tougher this year, but not so tough that they'd be anywhere near unbeatable under normal circumstances.

Of course, these aren't normal circumstances. 

The Trojans' collapse starts around thirty minutes into the first half, and it's everyone's fault. Theo slips up first, then Jean's rescue mission fails; Jeremy loses focus for a second and is dispossessed; Shereen fumbles a pass; Laila blinks and a goal goes in, then four more follow it in six minutes. 

“Not a great plan after all, huh, Knox?” a Stanford backliner says, bumping into Jeremy a little too hard. “Just 'cause you can, doesn't mean you should.”

“Fuck off.” 

Jeremy waits for Shereen to deal. She started instead of Alvarez—offensive dealer to wear them out in the first half, defensive dealer to protect the goal in the second when the Trojans are tired. 

That was the plan. It's not anymore. Shereen looks up, makes brief eye contact with Jeremy. They're going to have to go all out for the rest of the half, try to keep their goal protected, and regroup in the second half.

The ball comes toward him, and he sprints for it, gets in his racquet, turns to run, and—gets checked hard enough that he has to blink the stars out of his vision. The backliner from before laughs, passes the ball to their dealer. Jeremy stays at the wall for too long, has to drag himself forward to get back into the game.

Laila saves the ball this time, but barely. They're overwhelmed, tired, and they still have another half to go. This was a bad move. They can salvage it with subs in the second half, maybe keep it from being a real mess, but the chances of them coming back from four goals down when Jeremy's legs are already sick of this and his skull is throbbing, when their best defenders have been playing for forty-five minutes, are low.

*

The second half is better. A little. Pilar comes on for Jeremy, and she and Katie do an admirable job of scoring another two goals. Rogelio replaces Jean, Dev replaces Theo, Cas replaces Laila, and they only let in another goal between them. A Tylenol-ed up Jeremy switches places with Katie after twenty minutes, and then Theo comes back on for the final push. Shereen comes on for Alvarez. They're going all out in the last five, a few more attacks, maybe another goal. They probably can't win, but every goal will help come the end of the regular season.

In the end, it's seven to four, Stanford. Not good, but better than might have been expected at the beginning of the second half. 

There's press waiting by the locker room entrance. Jeremy pushes himself in front of the other Trojans, wishing he could do what Laila does, spread his arms and keep them safe. Someone sticks a mic in his face, and Jeremy takes a deep breath. 

“What can I say? We experimented, and we failed. It's still early days. We'll have to make it up by winning really well against other opposition, and when they come to L.A. we'll have to show Stanford how it's really done—yeah, of course I'm disappointed, but we'll just need to regroup and come back better than before. No, I don't think it's our new players. I think our strategy just didn't work. You could see in the second half that if we'd played in a more traditional style from the beginning we probably would've won. That's not to say Stanford's not tough. But they've got nothing on us at our best. We just weren't at our best.”

Someone presses against Jeremy's left arm. Laila, shoring up his racquet-less side. The mics move to her.

“The Trojans are a team, not a totalitarian regime,” she tells someone who asks her if the loss is more Jeremy or Rheman's fault. Distantly, beneath the buzzing in his head, Jeremy thinks the rhyme is cute. “We discuss every major decision we make, including strategies that diverge from what we'd normally do. We all agreed to play fair in the spring against the Foxes—yeah, I do still think that was the right decision! They only had nine players for most of the season, and we had twenty-eight. If we're not going to win fairly, and by being the best team we can be, I don't think we deserve to win at all. The Foxes proved you can win this way when they did it against the Ravens in finals, and we have excellent players on our team.”

“Thanks, guys, but my players need to shower,” Rheman says, playing the sensible adult and ushering Laila and Jeremy away from the microphones and cameras. Jeremy feels suddenly like he's back to being four foot nothing, smallest kid on the playground, a teacher putting an arm around his shoulders and dragging him away from whatever fight he was trying to pick. “We want to apologize to the fans, of course, but what we've seen is that the west coast is more competitive than it's ever been, so we're in for a great season.” 

He gives the reporters that gnarled old Coach grin, and Laila has to shove Jeremy to get him to move forward toward the locker room. 

Inside, it's chaos. The girls are all in the guys' locker room, an argument already brewing. Rogelio rounds on Rheman as soon as he gets in behind Jeremy and Laila.

“I _told you_ it was a mistake replacing me! I wouldn't have—”

“Sit down,” Rheman says. 

“No, you said it would be worth it, that I'd be able to fight for my place—this is me fighting for it! The proof is that Dev and I let in way fewer goals than Moreau and Nowak—”

“You let in fewer goals because you had played fewer minutes, not because you are better defenders,” Rheman says. “Sit down.” 

“No, this is _your_ fault,” Rogelio says, turning to Jeremy. “This was your fucking idea, and look what _incredible fucking exy_ we've gotten out of it—like the Foxes play incredible fucking exy in the first place, I told you this wouldn't work, it's a waste of half the team—”

“Sit down, or you won't start again while you're at USC,” Rheman says. “There are freshmen who'd kill for your spot. Moreau and Nowak are better defenders than you _right now_. I didn't think I needed to repeat myself, Diaz. Prove to me that I'm wrong—not now, in the gym and at practice—and you'll have your chance.” 

He regards the rest of the Trojans one by one. His eyes land, finally, on Jeremy. 

“If anyone else has any other grievances to air, now's not the time. We're going to go home, sleep on it, and tear the footage apart for every single unforced error tomorrow morning.” He waits for any protest, but even Rogelio stays silent. “Go shower. Be quick. I want to get the fuck out of here, and we have six hours to complain about it on the bus.”

*

The bus ride was bad enough, but leading his team into the elevators and up to the floor of the athletes' building that most of the exy players are scattered across feels to Jeremy unfairly like he's leading an army back from a battle they lost. It's dead quiet the whole way up. The Trojans are never quiet. Usually Alvarez, at least, will have something to say.

But there's nothing. Jeremy can't even come up with a pep talk. When he gets to his door at the end of the hall, he turns to say something and finds that everyone has already entered their own rooms. 

He sticks his ID in the reader, pulls it out again too quickly, and shoves it back in. The door clicks open. Behind him, Jean is completely silent. He might actually be tip-toeing.

They dress for bed without talking, take turns brushing their teeth in the bathroom. It's not until Jean comes out and sits on his bed without looking at Jeremy that Jeremy breaks the silence.

“Listen, I—” Jeremy says. He can't tell the entire team since the team aren't stuck with him, but they'll hear it from him in the morning. “I take full responsibility. Ro's just pissed he isn't starting, it's not your fault. Or anyone's fault. I mean, it's all of our fault or it's no one's fault but mine. I'm sorry your first game with us wasn't as good as it could've been, but we'll do better against Pepperdine next week.”

Jean stares at him. 

“It's only one game,” Jeremy says. “Keep playing the way you're playing and your spot will be safe.”

Jean stares at him.

“Look, okay, I can't just apologize for all of it because—” Well, truthfully, because his therapist says he shouldn't take on any more blame than he actually deserves. “—obviously I wasn't the only person on the court. But I do obviously—I mean, I am obviously pretty upset. I don't want you to think I'm not. I'm kind of—look, you don't have to say anything, but it'd be nice to know my roommate doesn't hate me for an idea all of us agreed on.”

Jean stares at him. Then he says, “I do not hate you.”

“Great,” Jeremy says. That makes one out of twenty-five. “Good. Thanks. I'm going to sleep.”

“Okay,” Jean says. “Good night.”

*

Jeremy wakes up the next morning with a rumbling stomach and considers staying in bed the entire day. It's Saturday, though, and that means breakfast with Alvarez and Laila, a meeting with Rheman and then a team meeting, and an empty afternoon since there was a game last night.

Right. The game last night. Subpar execution of their plan, the worst result they've had before playoffs in years. Jeremy squeezes his eyes shut, but all it does is remind him of the equally mortifying conversation he had with Jean when they got here last night. He likes having a roommate, but it would've been nice to come home alone yesterday and not have to interact with anyone before going to sleep. As it is, Jeremy really should've thought his words through more—he's never good with spontaneous speeches like that unless he's bullshitting to press. And Jean was obviously annoyed at him or pissed or something, because he just sat there waiting for Jeremy to keep verbally vomiting at him. Whatever. Jeremy will deal with it later.

When he stands up, his head spins and all his joints hurt. It's from inadequate stretching after the game yesterday, from cramming his limbs into the corner of a bus seat and pretending to sleep the whole way back from Palo Alto. 

Jean, whom Jeremy has already learned is a perennial early bird, isn't in his bed. Jeremy stretches in the middle of their floor, enjoying the feel of the strain in his neck. He takes a shower just to try and bring life back into his body. He digs for any comfortable clothes that don't have Trojans logos on them, changes his mind, and pulls on one of his six or seven Trojans Exy t-shirts. He avoids looking at himself in the mirror, combs back damp hair with his hand, and goes to the lounge to wait for Laila and Alvarez to wake up.

The TV is already on. Someone must have been watching it last night, left it on, tuned to ESPN-E. On Saturday mornings, they always do rundowns of the college games the night before. Jeremy doesn't know what it is that makes him watch—he doesn't always watch this program even when the Trojans are winning.

The Ravens won their first game of the season yesterday. So did Penn, Palmetto State, UT, and Duke. That's how many rundowns Jeremy has to sit through before they finally get to the west coast. 

He sees an image of himself opening his mouth, and then the channel switches.

“God, don't watch that,” Laila says, continuing to search through channels until they land on a soccer game. Jeremy has never understood her interest in sports other than theirs.

Alvarez appears behind her, uniform perfectly matching Jeremy's: Trojans t-shirt, grey sweats, track shoes. “What was it?”

“ESPN-E's college show,” Laila replies. “They were just about to get to us. You know that's only going to make you feel worse, right?”

Jeremy wishes they'd gotten drunk on the bus so he'd have an excuse for how cranky he feels. “I definitely couldn't feel any worse.” He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again, smiles. “Okay. You're right. We'll be fine. Let's go eat.”

“I don't think I've ever seen you do that in person before,” Alvarez says, squinting at him. “Jesus, that's weird.” 

“What are you talking about?”

Alvarez opens her mouth to respond, but Laila cuts her off: “You want to get off campus? Maybe we can go to that diner on South Figueroa?”

“I hate that place,” Alvarez says. “What about Bacaro brunch? I could definitely use some sangria.”

“No, let's go to the dining hall,” Jeremy says. He forces himself to stand up. “We're not—hiding. And I have a ton of homework, so drunk brunch won't work.” 

“If you're sure.” Laila shrugs and looks around at Jeremy's closed door. “What about the musketeer?”

“He's out,” Jeremy says. “Is that what y'all are calling him? That's mean.”

Alvarez rolls her eyes. “Mwangi said we should call him Gaston, but that was actually mean, and then my idea was Jean Valjean, but Nowak scrapped it for being 'too literary'. Like, he honestly didn't know the musketeers are also from a book. By the same guy, too!”

“It's not the same guy,” Laila says. “Where is he? This early?”

“Oh, right, let me just check the app I use to keep track of all of you—”

Alvarez laughs. Laila glares at Jeremy for another moment, then says, “Okay. You ready to go?”

*

Laila Abdul is a force of nature, but even she can't protect Jeremy from the ritual self-flagellation he participates in after every loss. ESPN-E upload all their content to their website for free with a cable login, and Jeremy's had Alvarez's since they met.

Jeremy sits down at his laptop after their team meeting with only one goal in mind. The video takes minimal time to find—being one of the most popular college teams, the Trojans have their own page—and Jeremy doesn't hesitate to press play. 

It's footage of himself from last night. “We experimented, and we failed. It's still early days. We'll have to make it up really well against other opposition.” 

Then commentary: 

“Is this a sign the Trojans' days on top are coming to a close?” 

“Well, Pete, I really think we're gonna need to look at a longer timeline to figure that out—look at their games against the Foxes and the Ravens in the semifinals last year. They lost both of those, and, you know, they might be at risk of not making playoffs.” 

“It's the first fucking game,” Jeremy says aloud. The figures on his screen do not respond.

“Do you think the changes in their starting line are contributing to that?”

“Look, obviously there's gonna be a breaking-in period with their rookies, especially a guy like Jean Moreau—you can't expect someone like that to slot into another system perfectly, but what are you gonna do? Not play the best backliner in college exy?”

“Listen, Pete, I don't know if it's tactics, strategy, or training, but you can see they were really tired by the end of that first half. That's not where you wanna be during the first game of the season.”

“Who's to blame for this? Is it Coach Rheman? Captain Jeremy Knox? Their new players? Their old ones?”

“It looks like Jeremy Knox is taking the blame for this one—maybe he thinks he'll be out of there soon anyway so it doesn't matter if his rep's trashed, but if he wants to go pro—”

Jeremy closes his laptop and sets his forehead down on top of it. He really does have a lot of homework to get done.

His phone vibrates. It's Alvarez: _i know ur watching the coverage i can literally hear it from my room turn the volume down_

 _i turned it off_ , he replies, and pushes his computer aside for a textbook.

*

In the illustrated children's dictionary of types of people, next to “extrovert” there's probably a picture of Jeremy Knox, smiling in full Trojans gear. Jeremy thrives off other people, loves parties, loves his team.

But after a loss, the only thing he wants to do is hit something.

Barring that: work out so hard he aches all over for days.

It's his fault, is the issue. Rogelio is right. ESPN-E is right. That's what he's thinking the entire jog to the Trojans' court that night. He stretches in the locker room with his headphones on as high as they'll go, slow even though he's short on time since it's an extra workout and he doesn't want to injure himself. It wasn't his playing that fucked them over, after all. It was his captaincy, his choices, his decision-making. And you don't stop captaining when you're on the bench.

They weren't ready, or else they didn't take it seriously enough, or maybe both. He stretches his groin. They won't be able to take risks like this again with a loss like that to kick off their season. They'll have to ease back to full halves, slowly, start with twenty-five minutes maybe.

He bends over, touches his toes, crawls his fingers forward, closes his eyes and lets his lower back strain. Rheman won't go for full time scrimmages—they're too risky mid-week when they have real games on the weekends. That's an issue; they were supposed to get most of their conditioning done this summer, and Jeremy thought they _had_ , but—

He stands up straight and reaches backward. The room spins, and that's when Jeremy remembers getting checked so hard he couldn't see for a second. He has a bruise on the back of his head. Helmets are supposed to protect you from that kind of thing, but, Jeremy supposes, head injuries are common in exy for a reason. 

It hurts. His head hurts. The loud music isn't helping, but he kind of doesn't want to help it—the pain of it feels worth it if in the long run, even if all it's going to do is help soothe the roiling anxiety in his gut. He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Puts his helmet on, jogs to the court. 

Someone is there already. It takes Jeremy almost a full minute to realize who it is setting up the cones: Jean in his practice clothes, no protective gear except gloves and a helmet, the giant racquet he plays with leaning against the wall.

It puts a stutter in Jeremy's step. There isn't supposed to be anyone else here at this time. Practice ended hours ago, and anyway most of it took place in the conference room. Jeremy thought Jean was in the library.

Jean doesn't notice him. He probably has earbuds in himself; all his focus is on the cone formation he's setting up. Jeremy doesn't recognize it. 

“Hey,” Jeremy calls.

Jean doesn't hear him. He finishes setting the cones out and grabs his racquet, then turns toward his bucket of balls. Which, incidentally, is only a few feet away from Jeremy.

Jeremy opens his mouth to greet him again, and in the same instant Jean startles so badly he almost falls over backwards. 

Jeremy raises both hands, feeling slightly like he's trying to calm an angry animal. “Shit—sorry, sorry, I didn't realize—”

Jean tears his earbuds out of his ears. “Why did you sneak up on me?”

“I didn't mean to,” Jeremy says. “I didn't know you'd be here, I just—”

Jean looks him up and down. “Are you here to practice? We're not supposed to.”

Jeremy casts a meaningful look at the racquet in Jean's right hand. 

Jean rolls his eyes. “I need to do drills. You need to not hurt yourself.”

“So do you,” Jeremy says. “What drills are you even doing? I've never seen these before.”

“Of course you haven't. These are Ravens drills.”

“So what do you do?” The cones don't give anything away. Maybe they're supposed to represent opposing players. “Bully the ball into the goal?”

“The Ravens' techniques are the best in the game.”

Jeremy leans back a little. He used to think that too. Then Kevin Day enlightened him. “Maybe, if you're not interested in playing fair.”

“The Trojans have never beaten us,” Jean snaps.

“Well, you're a Trojan now,” Jeremy replies. “Better make it happen.”

Jean's expression is indecipherable. “Wearing red doesn't make you a Trojan.”

“No, but that's the name on the back of your shirt and at the top of your contract.”

“My contract,” Jean repeats. “Is that all?”

“Why are you pissed at me all of a sudden?”

“I'm not,” Jean says. “I—” He looks down at his racquet, then back up at Jeremy. “The Trojans could not beat a piñata on Friday night. Just because the drills are Ravens-developed, doesn't mean they are inherently bad. Master Tetsuji created the sport. His techniques are impeccable.”

Tetsuji Moryiama is every young exy player's hero. Jeremy spent most of high school wanting to train under him, but the Ravens never showed up to recruit, and everyone knows the Ravens come to you and not the other way around.

Of course, Jeremy doesn't think much of Tetsuji Moriyama these days. He crosses his arms.

“Fine,” he says. “Get your gear on and show me.”

Jean looks at him for a moment. “Really?”

“Yeah, what's the point in playing a competitive team sport alone?” Jeremy puts his headphones and phone on the floor in the corner and waits for Jean to do the same, then grabs the bucket of balls. “I'm your captain, right? Maybe you're right and we should incorporate them into practice.”

“These are Ravens drills,” Jean says. “They aren't supposed to leave the Nest.”

“You're not a Raven anymore.” Jeremy cradles a ball in his racquet, testing. “You don't owe them anything.” 

He waits. If Jean says no, Jeremy will be disappointed, but he'll accept it. He didn't come here to figure out what drills the Trojans should be using; he came here because he's pissed off and he's been working out his emotional problems on a court since little league. Jean's only been a Trojan for a few months, has only played a single game in red and gold, barely talks to anyone on the team other than Jeremy and sometimes his go-to drill partner Theo Nowak, goes to therapy every Monday before afternoon practice and skulks into the gym like a wounded cat after. There's no reason for him to share if he doesn't want to. The Trojans can progress without it—they always have before.

“Fine,” Jean says. “Put the ball on the floor. Other side of the cone. Stand over there. The point of this drill is control—getting the ball and then keeping it.”

“How were you going to do this alone?”

“My biggest enemy has always been myself. None of the strikers on the west coast are good enough to get a ball away from me.” Jean raises an eyebrow. Boldly: “Present company very much included.”

It's on after that: Jeremy listens to Jean's instructions about the drill, but it stops being about the Trojans and starts being about Jeremy's own frustrations as soon as Jean puts his padding on and they start struggling for the ball. The second one of them gets it, the other is there to check, Jeremy shoving Jean against the wall to dispossess him or Jean dashing past Jeremy's shoulder and banging his racquet against Jeremy's so hard that Jeremy feels the reverberations travel up his shoulder. It hurts. It hurts more than it would have for them to practice alone, even if they practiced alone on the same court. They're going to have bruises tomorrow, and given the double practice they have scheduled for most Sunday mornings, they're also going to be fucking exhausted.

Jeremy doesn't care. If anything, it makes him play harder, try to tear the ball out of Jean's grip even as Jean cradles it. Jean's racquet is heavier than Jeremy's since he's a backliner, but Jeremy is faster with his. He's gotten awards for racquet skill for the last two years—that wasn't a coincidence. Jeremy drives forward ceaselessly; Jean parries almost every time. Finally, Jeremy wins the ball away from him, sprints around the cones. Jean drives into him from the side, and Jeremy tumbles to floor. His helmet bangs unceremoniously against the hardwood, and it takes him a second to get back up. But he hasn't lost the ball, and Jean is getting more frustrated about it.

When they stop, it's only because Jeremy has driven a shoulder into Jean's back, causing the ball to skid out of his racquet and roll away across the floor.

“That was an illegal move,” Jean says, rolling his shoulders.

“Do you see a ref?” 

The injury on the back of his head hurts. There's a scratch at the front of his throat, too, where his helmet strap dug in wrong. Even though he's run across the court about a dozen times already, the concept of chasing that ball down right now seems impossible. He sits down on the polished maple instead, drags his helmet off his head and runs a hand through damp hair. The bruise is still there, throbbing. Jeremy thinks Jean might've bounced a ball off of it. But when he presses tentative fingers to the ache, he doesn't feel blood. 

Jean plops down next to him, leans forward to rest his arms on stretched out legs, and checks his phone.

“It's one in the morning,” he says.

“Fuck. I didn't mean to stay here for this long.”

“Me neither,” Jean admits. “You distracted me.”

Jeremy laughs breathlessly into the empty court. He doesn't mean to say anything—he and Jean are friendly, but it's the first time they've done anything alone besides sleep in the same room, and he doesn't want to damage the camaraderie they've built up in the last couple of hours—but because you literally couldn't pay him to keep his mouth shut, it slips out. “Jesus, that was fun.”

Jean's silence is still, loaded; again, Jeremy has put his foot directly in his own mouth. He wonders if Jean ever enjoyed the sport, or if it was always corrupted for him by Riko Moriyama's puny shadow. He wishes he could reset everything that's ever happened to Jean and show him exy for the first time—the thrill of it, the rush—this time clean of the Moriyamas' taint. He thinks, Jean would like exy if he could play it like that. He says, “Who knew you were competitive?”

“Literally everyone,” Jean replies, giving no further indication that Jeremy's words have had any effect on him at all. “Who knew California Golden Boy Jeremy Knox could play dirty?”

Jeremy grins. “Best kept secret on the west coast. Told you there was a western division striker who could dispossess you.”

Jean scoffs. “On a practice court, maybe. Try to get it away from me during a game.”

Jeremy leans back, bracing himself on gloved hands. “Luckily, I won't ever have to.” 

Jean stretches out, too, arms flung out behind him, an aborted backstroke. “We have footage to prove you never have.” 

“Do we?” Jeremy says, surprised. His memory of playing against Jean isn't that robust—both the Trojans and the Ravens used their subs liberally when Jean was still a Raven, so while they might both have started, their actual joint play time was probably lacking. He twists a little to look at Jean. “I don't remember that.”

“I do. I remember—” But he cuts himself off with a drawn out sigh, all French melodrama. “We should shower.” He pauses, then says, “What happened to your head?”

“I don't know, think I hurt it when that backliner checked me,” Jeremy says. “I don't think it's serious. Or I'd be dead, right?”

Jean turns toward him and doesn't laugh. “Did Bobbie look at it?”

“I've had bruises before, Jean.”

“Head injuries aren't a joke.”

“She'll probably just tell me to take a couple Tylenol and relax.”

“Humor me.”

Jeremy sighs. “Okay. Fine. I'll go see her after practice tomorrow.”

They shower next to each other in companionable silence. Jeremy has trained himself already not to look at Jean in the shower: Jean isn't self-conscious about his scars, but Jeremy feels self-conscious enough for the both of them. Jeremy plays exy, and to play exy you have to be a little fucked up—you like pain a little bit too much, enjoy hurting and being hurt—but most exy players don't carve their teammates up. Most exy players don't leave their teammates in tatters so complete strangers can patch them back together. When Jean arrived in L.A.—

Abruptly, hot rage flares in Jeremy's stomach. It's not retroactive protectiveness of Jean; it's something deeper, some connection to or belief in the integrity of the sport that has him wishing Riko hadn't shot himself so Jeremy could wring his neck himself. Or maybe not. Maybe just prove superiority on a court without any refs on it, like tonight, like with Jean, except without the underlying camaraderie of being teammates. How good was Riko when he wasn't surrounded by six-foot-seven backliners, wearing a shirt with that name on it?

Damn good, still. Jeremy remembers: pinpoint passes, laser-fast reflexes. Probably he doesn't remember playing against Jean because he spent too long in those days paying attention to Riko and Kevin. Envying them. 

Jeremy inches forward, sticks his head more fully under the stream, and closes his eyes. The water is hot, pressure strong—nothing but the best for the award-winning but national trophy-less USC Trojans—but it doesn't do the job. His thoughts, momentarily repressed by the exhilaration of playing with Jean, have dipped back into dangerous territory, except that this time it's turned outward. 

He's not pissed at himself. He's pissed at the ERC for not investigating deeper into the Ravens' bullshit, not even when Kevin Day showed up in South Carolina with his racquet hand injured beyond repair, not even when Kevin told everyone in the world who'd injured him. He's pissed at Tetsuji Moriyama for letting his nephew wreck his players like that in the name of his own ego, for probably joining in the wrecking himself. He's pissed at a dead man, buried somewhere in West Virginia, who finally stopped turning all his internal issues outward and shot himself instead. Supposedly. He's pissed about that too—the uncertainty. Exy used to be the only thing in his life he could count on, and now it feels like water slipping between his fingertips.

They stand in the shower for too long, Jeremy uselessly still under the stream while Jean massages the kinks out of his own shoulders. But it's not the first time Jeremy has ever been angry at himself or the institutions that govern his life, and it won't be the last. He rinses his hair out and turns off the water, wraps himself in a towel and grabs another to get the excess water out of his hair. 

They dress in silence, too, at opposite sides of the bench in the locker room. Jeremy catches himself staring this time: there's something startlingly delicate about Jean's face, the peaks and valleys of it, the slope of his brow, the length of his lashes. The way his nose starts out flat and then flows into a hill, the plush rise of his lips.

It's only then that he thinks to ask Jean, “Why did you come out here so late?” 

“I intend to go pro,” Jean replies. “If I am going to play for a less than perfect team, then I must be perfect to make up for their flaws.”

“You're not much better than the rest of our backline,” Jeremy says, smarting a little at the implications that his team—that _he_ —wouldn't be good enough to propel players into the professional game. The Trojans are the best-represented college team in the major leagues. He thinks of Rogelio, an inch away from punching him in the face last night. “You lack some of the endurance they've built up.”

“Thus my extra practices,” Jean says, almost diplomatically.

“Practices, plural? How often do you do this?”

“This is the first of many.”

“Don't hurt yourself,” Jeremy says. “I—we don't want to have to replace you in the starting line.”

Jean shrugs a sweatshirt on, grey with Trojan maroon lettering. It already looks well-worn: Jeremy thinks it might be the first piece of gear Jean got when he moved here. 

“We should go to bed,” Jeremy says, and Jean trails him out of the locker room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi thanks for giving this a chance! i'm going to try to update every week for now but that might change as i get past the parts of the story i've already written ha. 
> 
> title is from ["mary" by big thief](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G5OV1JPqlNQ). 
> 
> come talk to me on [tumblr](http://wilsherejackc.tumblr.com)! please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo.


	2. fight

Full-team practice the next day starts out quiet but productive. Their scrimmage is as close to silent as they ever get, the only sounds Jeremy or the dealers calling out plays. 

Jean makes eye contact with Jeremy across the court, hurls the ball in his direction, an inch-perfect pass. Jeremy catches it in his racquet and curls his body around it just as Rogelio checks him. 

Jeremy's grip is too good. He passes to Pilar. Pilar sends the ball back toward Shereen. Shereen darts forward, narrowly avoids a check from Dev, and passes back to Jeremy. He angles it at the top left of the goal, just out of Laila's reach. Rogelio comes hurtling toward him again. Jeremy releases the ball. Red. 

He hits the floor a second later, head hitting the floor hard enough to bring his lunch back up despite the helmet. He squeezes his eyes shut, lets himself be hauled back to his feet, and takes a moment to steady himself.

The check from Rogelio was technically legal. Not the kind of thing you'd usually see in practice, but legal. 

“Jesus, Ro,” Jeremy says. He keeps hold of Rogelio's arm. “You trying to murder me?”

“Mis-timed it,” Rogelio replies, twisting away to get back into position

“Nice one,” Shereen says, clacking her stick against Jeremy's. “How's your head?”

“Terrific.” 

“He didn't have to try to knock you out, though, I mean—”

“I know.”

“So you're gonna—” Shereen says. 

“It's their deal,” Jeremy says. “Get it to Pilar. I want more goals.” 

Jeremy's team wins. Rogelio is annoyed about it, throws his racquet to the floor and stomps off the court in irritation. 

“The fuck is his problem?” Theo says.

Jeremy ignores him, jogging after Rogelio into the locker room and waving Laila away when she tries to follow him. He shuts and locks the door behind him—he doesn't want any of the other Trojans trying to intervene.

“Ro, what the fuck? I get that you're pissed about not starting, but—”

“I'm not pissed about not starting,” Rogelio says. “I'm pissed about your obvious favoritism—I don't know what fucking connection you and Moreau have, but being roommates doesn't mean—”

“You literally just concussed me,” Jeremy says, tearing off his helmet. “You want to fight for real? Without all that armor? Because I'm not above it, as long as we're off court.”

“'As long as we're off court',” Rogelio repeats. “Jesus, do you hear yourself?”

“You see that three on his face? You know what that means? It means the person who invented the fucking sport thinks he's the best defender playing it. He practices more than you. He works harder than you. He _cares_ more than you. Why should you start?”

Rogelio's hands ball into fists. Jeremy's heart thuds wildly in his chest. He feels dizzy; adrenaline buzzes behind his eyes, making the edges of his vision go black.

“Hit me,” he says. He can't believe how much he wishes Rogelio would. “Come on. No one else is here.”

Rogelio stares at him, wide-eyed. Then he takes off his helmet, too, peels off his gloves and strips off his padding. When he's standing there in a t-shirt and shorts, he looks less—well, no, he doesn't look any less intimidating. He's around the same height as Jeremy but has at least thirty pounds on him, all of it solid muscle. The build of a backliner who's been training his entire life.

“I'm not going to hit you,” he says. “Jesus. You can relax.”

Jeremy says, “He's better than you are. That's why you were dropped.”

“Don't you think I _know_ that? Fuck, Knox, I was supposed to go pro and now I'm second fiddle to a Raven reject who barely even talks, I mean Jesus—”

“Are you seriously trying to fucking maim me because you think _I'm_ the one putting your career at risk?”

“ _No_ , God, I don't think—” He sighs, scrubs a hand through his damp hair. “Look, Knox, I know you're not trying to fuck me over. But I'm still getting fucked over.”

“You need to take a day and decide if you want to be here or not,” Jeremy says. “You'll get minutes in the next few games. But you're not gonna start if you don't show me and Coach that you're good enough to without pulling hissy fits every five fucking minutes.” 

“He doesn't practice harder than I do,” Rogelio says. “I'm in the gym every fucking night.”

“So's he,” Jeremy says. “Where do you think I got those drills?”

“Knox—”

“I mean it. I don't want to see you tomorrow. Take a day. We'll survive without you.”

“I don't need a day. I know what I want.”

Jeremy's head throbs. “Maybe we need a day. We're Trojans. No spot in the starting lineup is guaranteed. This kind of attitude has no place on our court.”

“I can't believe you're telling that to me and not foul-happy Moreau out there.”

“If Coach dropped Jean, he'd work hard to get back to the top, not bitch about how he's entitled a spot because he was picked for the perfect fucking court.” Jeremy waits for a response, and when he doesn't get one, adds, “Listen, Ro, I don't need you to like me. But we all agreed the full halves thing could work, and you didn't start because you didn't play well enough in practice. And if we did it again, you still wouldn't start. Get it?”

“Oh, _fuck_ you—”

“Great.” He needs to close out practice, and then maybe he can go for a run before showering—he has too much unused adrenaline pumping through his veins. He definitely wants Rogelio out of his face. “See you Tuesday.”

“Knox—”

Jeremy whirls around, hoping, praying—“What?”

But Rogelio isn't going to hit him. “Sorry about your head. I forgot you got hurt Friday.” 

Jeremy debates extending the fight. He could tell Rogelio which of their teammates are hurt in which ways and how if Rogelio cared more about the team than his own ego, he would've noticed. He could tell Rogelio to go fuck himself. He could just hit him. Jeremy closes his eyes briefly; he feels like throwing up.

He says, “Thanks. It's fine.”

When he gets back outside the locker room, the rest of the team are pretending they didn't have their ears pressed against the door. Laila in particular is playing with the strings on her racquet but might as well be whistling and batting her eyelashes like a Looney Tune. 

Still, it was probably her arguing on his behalf that kept the rest of the team—including Rheman—from following them inside. 

“You good?” Rheman asks.

“He is,” Jeremy replies. The gym swims, and he thinks dully that they should go to the beach. He closes his eyes. “I think I need to go see Bobbie.”

“Shit, are you okay?” Katie's voice, maybe.

“Palmer concussed him on Friday,” Jean says. Jeremy opens his eyes again. Jean is frowning.

“And Diaz just tried to finish him off,” Laila adds. “I'll give you a ride to the gym.”

“Yeah, I don't need you dying in the middle of a game,” Rheman says. “Can you imagine the publicity? 'Exy worse than football—star California captain's killer concussion.' Abdul would have some godawful quote—”

“My quote would be impeccable,” Laila argues. “And Jeremy would be, like, a martyr for the cause. Everyone from football to baseball to, like, fucking college Quidditch would thank him every day for—” 

Jeremy stops paying attention; Jean keeps sneaking glances at him across their teammates. Jeremy smiles at him, hoping to put him at ease, but it just makes Jean look more confused.

He lets himself be led out of the building and to Laila's car. The sports complex isn't large, but she drives anyway, Alvarez sitting in the middle back next to Katie and leaning forward to mess with the radio dials. 

“This isn't bothering you, is it?” Alvarez says. Jeremy shuts his eyes.

“Shit, he's not for real gonna die, is he? Should we keep him awake?”

“I don't know. Poke him or something.”

“I'm not gonna die,” Jeremy says, keeping his eyes closed. He likes Laila's car. It's more comfortable than it has any business being, considering it's a car. “I just need some Tylenol or something.”

“Want me to kill Ro for you?” It's Katie, Jeremy is pretty sure. “I don't think it would even be hard. I could poison his coffee or something.”

“Put some cyanide in his Gatorade,” Alvarez suggests as Laila pulls into the parking lot.

“We're not going to murder Rogelio,” Jeremy says, letting Laila hook an arm around his and lead him into the building. He can walk on his own, but he doesn't mind letting her feel like she's taking care of him. “We're good. It was Palmer who checked me, anyway.” And Jean last night, Rogelio today. He keeps putting himself in between backliners and their goals. It's supposed to be the other way around, he's pretty sure. “I'm just tired.”

“Oh, shit, dude, Ro's texting you,” Alvarez says. She grabs Jeremy's phone out of the bag he has slung over his shoulder. “Want me to read them? Give me your thumb.”

“He's probably just worried,” Laila says. “Al, can you text him from my phone? Tell him we're on our way to Bobbie's and that he'll be fine.”

“You know, I probably don't need to bring a whole entourage to the nurse with me,” Jeremy says. “The rest of you can leave.”

“Extremely presumptuous,” Alvarez says. “Mwangi and I have a model UN meeting next door.” She shoves both Jeremy's phone and Laila's into Jeremy's free hand. “Can you manage those?” 

Without waiting for an answer, she kisses Laila's cheek, and she and Katie turn left instead of continuing down the path into the gym with Jeremy and Laila.

“So tell me the truth,” Laila says. “You dying?”

Jeremy swallows against the liquid filling his mouth. “Probably not. I'll throw up at Bobbie's, but it's not the worst concussion I've ever had.”

“Are you sure you and Diaz are good?”

“Yeah. It's not his fault I didn't see Bobbie Friday, and then last night when Jean and I practiced I think I made it worse.” 

“So our Raven in Trojans gear didn't hit you with a cinder block or something?”

“Jesus,” Jeremy says, faintly disturbed. “No. Of course not. He might've hit me in the helmet with a ball, though.” 

“And you're sure Diaz won't still be pissed about this?”

“Yeah. I mean, mostly. I don't know. But he isn't going to start shit about it again. Not at practice, anyway.”

“We should take him to lunch.”

“Talk to me when I'm not ready to puke my guts out,” Jeremy says, letting himself be steered into Bobbie's office.

*

As he predicted, he's mostly fine. Bedrest, Bobbie says; no practice for a week, Tylenol, early bedtime. She mentions something about how many concussions she's seen this week. Jeremy dutifully ignores her.

When he gets back to his room, Jean is sitting on his bed, shoulders tense; Jeremy is reminded of his grandmother's feral cat when she hears an unexpected noise. 

“It's fine,” Jeremy says. “Just a minor concussion made worse by not taking a break.” He waves his bottle of Tylenol in Jean's face. “Told you.”

“Oh,” Jean says. “Good.” 

His eyes are wide. Jeremy hadn't noticed before how strange their shade is—dark, but not really brown. His lashes are thick, too, striking against his skin up close even if from far away you might not be able to tell.

“What?” Jean says.

Jeremy blinks. “Nothing. Sorry. Concussion, remember?”

“I—yes. I didn't mean to—if last night something I—”

“This is hilarious,” Jeremy says. “If I'd known I just needed to get concussed to have you sound like me, I would've done it weeks ago.”

Jean opens his mouth, then closes it again. There's a smile coming, Jeremy can feel it. All he has to do is wait for it. 

He doesn't, obviously. “It's not your fault.”

Jean's mouth goes flat again. “What about Diaz?”

“That's not your fault, either. And it's fixed anyway. How did you know the backliner's name?”

“What?”

“Palmer.”

“Oh.” Jean stares at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. How'd you remember who it was?”

“Exy is my life,” Jean says, still looking confused. “I know every player of note in the division.”

“Jesus. What do you do, study them?”

“You don't know them?”

“I know the teams we're playing, numbers, positions, strengths. Things like that. Names are less important.” Jeremy grins. “I mean, unless I think they might beat us.”

“Stanford beat us.”

“They won't next time.” Jeremy tears his gaze away from Jean, plops down on his bed face-first. Now that he's thrown up and taken his meds, he feels terrific. And he has a note that'll get him out of class for the next couple of days. “Exy's my life, too, you know. I just don't think it's realistic to memorize twenty-five different names every week.”

“Exy is not your life,” Jean says. 

With some effort, Jeremy turns his face away from his blankets to look at Jean. “Are you joking? I literally play for like six hours a day and think about it whenever I'm not playing. I don't think I have a single friend who isn't an exy player.” 

“That's not the same thing,” Jean says, but he doesn't elaborate, even when Jeremy pushes.

*

Technically Jeremy is supposed to be out of practice all week, but he hasn't missed one since his freshman year, so he goes the next morning anyway, sits outside the plexiglass and bangs his fists against it whenever someone does something he doesn't like. Laila does a good job of leading the defenders' practice while the attack lift in the weight room anyway, and Jeremy is kind of enjoying standing here in his sweats enjoying a coffee he's not sure he's supposed to be drinking.

This is probably what next year will be like, if he ever visits. If he's close enough to visit. He could go to one of the L.A. teams and be practically down the street. Would he like it? Watching the Trojans go on, from outside the plexiglass? Come back at first to hugs and applause and later to people questioning why the fuck he's still hanging around his alma mater? Get frustrated at their losses and know there's nothing he can do about it because he isn't captain anymore but blame himself anyway because it was his methods and policies that turned the Trojans into this? Is that all the future is—watching his old team through the glass?

He sits down on the bench. On the court, Rogelio and Jean are doing a backliner drill together, practicing legal checks. Laila's idea, probably. Theo and Dev are doing the same next to them. Rogelio and Jean aren't talking, which would be strange if it were any duo other than Rogelio and Jean, but at least they're not doing anything that looks particularly malicious. 

Jeremy leans forward, pressing his forehead against the plexiglass. It's cool—it's always cooler than he expects it to be, given how much heat they generate when they're on court. He exhales, watches his breath fog up the glass, closes his eyes.

There's a crash to his left. Jeremy jerks to his feet. His first thought is that there was a car crash, though of course that can't be right. 

On the other side of the glass, barely paying attention to him, is Alvarez; she's being helped up by Dev, and neither of them seems to be too hurt or upset. A normal check. Jeremy resumes breathing. 

He looks around, sees two people watching him: Laila, from goal; and a few feet away from where he was protecting it, Jean. 

“I'm fine,” he mouths. Just startled out of sleep. He blinks a few times, sits back down on the bench, and waits for practice to end.

*

“Are you trying to double team me?” Rogelio asks.

It's a fair point, partly because there aren't many other reasons for Laila and Jeremy to show up at the end of Rogelio's class to take him to lunch, partly because it's true. Still, it's sort of rude.

“We always have lunch together on Wednesdays,” Laila says. “Knox is still out of class, so we're keeping him company.”

“Maybe, but you never show up to pick me up,” Rogelio says. He falls in step with them anyway. “I thought we were good, Knox.” A pause: “Your head's okay?” 

“Back in class tomorrow and practice next week, pending a check-up by Bobbie and my MRI results this afternoon,” Jeremy says. “Like I said, more Palmer's fault than yours, but I still think there's no need for aggressive tackles and checks in practice.”

“I know,” Rogelio says quickly. “I'm sorry about that. You know I'd never—”

“I know,” Jeremy says. “Obviously.”

“So why the Team Rocket thing?”

Jeremy snorts. “Cute. No, I just wanted to get lunch.” And start to—rebuild, or whatever. He doesn't say that, but it's probably obvious. 

They settle in at the dining hall and start eating before Jeremy finds his way to the topic he actually wants to address.

“Listen, Ro, you were right. The full halves thing didn't work out, and it was my idea.”

“But we all agreed it could work,” Laila adds. “It wasn't just Jeremy's fault. None of us played like we should.”

“I'm not the only one who was pissed, you know,” Rogelio says. “Katie's ACL hasn't been right all week, and Shereen has issues with our formation, too.” 

“Right, but they didn't pick a fight with me,” Jeremy says. He occupies his hands with cutting the food on his plate. He isn't very hungry—not working out for multiple days will do that to an athlete—but he forces some of the chicken down anyway. “I don't want you to feel like this isn't a shared responsibility.”

“I get it,” Rogelio says. “I just need to know you aren't, like—choosing Moreau or doing things that benefit him because he's new and you feel bad for him and you have that Ravens thing.”

“What Ravens thing?” Jeremy says, and next to him, Laila sighs.

“Your, you know, bullshit inferiority complex. 'If we can't beat them in sport we'll have to beat them in spirit' and all that.” Rogelio glances at Laila. “I mean, I'm right, right? That's a thing?”

“I don't know,” Laila says. “Maybe.” But at a glance from Jeremy, she sighs again. “No, okay, it's kind of a thing. You know it is! You're always like, maybe it'll be this year, and then it never is, you have to admit you were excited when Kevin Day told you Jean Moreau was poachable, come on.”

“Yeah, because he's a good defender,” Jeremy says. “You were excited, too. Remember? 'Finally someone competent in front'—hey!” 

Laila picks up the french fry she chucked at his face and dips it into ketchup. “Look, it's like, your one character flaw. You couldn't be completely perfect, right?”

“I'm not perfect.”

“Right, because of your Ravens thing. Whatever, it's fine. That's not why, by the way, Diaz, Moreau is genuinely better than you are.” 

“Okay,” Rogelio says. “I'll get better.”

“I know you will,” Jeremy says. “I just wanted to make sure this isn't going to keep being an issue.”

“It's not,” Rogelio says. He looks down at his soup, then back at up at Jeremy. “Can we just eat now?”

Jeremy grins. “Of course we can.”

*

“What did you do?” Jean says.

It's late. Jeremy is stretched out on his bed in sweats watching Netflix. He thought the break from class and practice might be nice, but he's so bored he's rewatching things he watched in high school. Jean has both his gym duffel and his backpack over his shoulder, and drops both of them onto his bed while waiting for Jeremy's response. Jeremy was kind of looking forward to him getting back—something feels altered between them, ever since they practiced alone together. Jeremy likes it.

“I don't know, mostly just watched TV on my computer. Did you eat? Dev and I were talking about getting late night food, but I'm not really hungry, so the extra company might be fun.”

“I do not mean what you did during your day off. Why is Diaz fine with not starting now?”

“Oh.” Jeremy frowns. “I mean, he's not fine with it. He's just accepted that he has to work hard for his spot.”

“What did you do to him?”

Jeremy blinks. “We just talked.” 

“You talked? One conversation, and the same person who slammed you into the floor wants tips from me?”

“He asked you for tips? That's cute.”

Jean is standing perfectly still. Jeremy thinks of Alvarez's cat before a pounce and can't understand why Jean is so upset. 

“Knox.” 

“What do you want me to say? Yeah, we talked. What's wrong with that?” 

Jean is the one who breaks the staring contest, twisting his head toward the wall. “I'm still new. I'm still learning how you—the Trojans do things.”

“Oh,” Jeremy says again. He lets Jean's words sink in, thinks of the scars on Kevin Day's hand. “I mean, it was two conversations, but we're probably good now. You're competing for the same spot, though, so better watch out.” Wait, fuck. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Not for—I just mean he's good, so that'll probably keep you on your toes.”

“I know what you meant.”

“How much—” Jeremy starts, stops again. “I don't want to ask you something you don't want to answer.”

“What happened to me is not a secret,” Jean says. “Even if I wanted it to be, you saw me.”

“Still. It's your personal business.”

“I wouldn't answer if I didn't want to.”

“Wouldn't you?”

Jean still isn't looking at him. “You said all it took was two conversations.”

“Jean, I'm not going to make you do anything. Ro could've kept complaining, but he agrees that we work best when we're all getting along, and he saw you play, too.” Jeremy doesn't share Rogelio's personal anxieties about his future, but Jean can probably guess at them. “I want to know what they did to you, but only when you feel comfortable telling me. Until then, just let me know when I get too close to a—a wound you don't want reopened.”

“So you can know exactly where to stick your knife?” Jean says. He angles his body more fully away from Jeremy, takes his books out of his bag and stacks them on top of his desk, then throws everything in his gym back in the hamper in his closet. Jean is neat. Like everything with Jean, Jeremy can't help but wonder if it's a learned behavior, and if so, how it was learned.

“So I know when to shut up,” Jeremy says. “I get that I'm—I know we haven't known each other for that long, but we are becoming friends, aren't we? And just so we're clear, if we aren't, I'll be, like, regular sad, but not—that's it. I'd just be sad, here on the other side of the room. You'd still be starting backliner. I'd still treat you fairly.”

“I know,” Jean says. “That's the way—that's how everyone says you are.”

“Okay,” Jeremy says. “Ro and I just talked. Well, yelled. And then Laila and I had lunch with him. That's it.”

“I know. I didn't think—anything else. I just—” Jean turns back toward him. “I'm sorry. We are—like you said. Friends.” He pauses. “I do not have that much experience with that.”

“Being friends with your captain? I know. I mean, I don't know, obviously, not everything, but—I saw what he did to Kevin. And to you. Makes you question everything, you know? Every little injury any Raven ever had?” No wonder they're always so pissy on the court; they're like abused dogs. Jeremy keeps himself from saying that out loud for once, though. 

“No, just—having friends at all. I am still getting used to it. Ravens have partners, but we do not have real friends. Even your teammates are obstacles on your path to the top, and I have been marked as an obstacle since I was a child.”

Jeremy tries to keep his eyes off Jean's tattoo, he really does. But there it is, a constant reminder of who Jean was.

“It was like he owned me,” Jean continues. “He really did own me. His family has mafia ties, and mine owed them, and so I was used to make the trade. I couldn't leave.”

“Until he died,” Jeremy says, but that isn't right. Kevin offered him a backliner way before that. 

“Someone else intervened. Bought my future away from him.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means I can be here,” Jean says. 

It doesn't answer the question Jeremy was asking, not really, but at least he hasn't completely shut down.

“Okay,” Jeremy says. “Thank you for telling me.” 

Jean stares back at him, perfectly still. He looks like he could bolt at a moment's notice. 

This time, it's Jeremy who breaks the eye contact, sitting up and stretching.

“I have to meet Dev. You sure you don't want to get a bite with us?”

“Next time, maybe.”

“I'll hold you to that. Lunch tomorrow? I usually eat with Theo and Alvarez, and I know you don't have class then. You're not getting out of this, seriously, we take team camaraderie _very_ seriously here, and it's not one of our post-practice full team dinners you can just sit silently at.”

“You talk a lot,” Jean says. He pauses like he's gauging Jeremy's reaction, and when Jeremy only grins in response, says, “I will have lunch with you tomorrow.”

“Perfect. Want anything from late night? I can grab you some chicken tenders or whatever.”

“I have protein powder, and I already ate dinner. But thank you.”

Jeremy shoves his feet into sneakers and meets Dev outside his room. Dev chatters about something inane, and Shereen meets up with them—she has a late class, apparently—and Jeremy doesn't pay any attention to him at all. 

He knows Jean's revelations about Riko shouldn't be giving him this strange, warm feeling. Jeremy hates Riko, and the violence of that hatred surprises him more every time. But Jean, who still can't even say Riko's name, like he's Lucifer or Beetlejuice or Bloody fucking Mary, like he'll just show up, told Jeremy about it. 

“What are you smiling about, weirdo?” Shereen asks. 

“Nothing,” Jeremy says. “Just that I—I'm really looking forward to some nachos.”

“Nachos and no exercise,” Dev says. “Tsk tsk, Knox. You won't be able to run next week.”

“You just worry about that freshman who's about to replace you and let me worry about me.” 

“Cold, Knox,” Shereen says, and the warm feeling doesn't go away, not even after they eat and Dev drives them all back to the athletes' corner of campus.

Jean is asleep when Jeremy gets back. Jeremy takes a long shower, as hot as he can handle, and crawls into bed with his hair wet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com)! please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo.


	3. opportunity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao I totally forgot laila has a last name already. in my defense laila is an arabic name! also i took some other liberties w canon (alvarez is a dealer for various reasons) so i guess this is technically in character for me.

“—so then Knox, thinking he's like, I don't know, Michael Jordan or something, scoops up the ball and just runs across the entire court, gets to literally within an inch of the goal, and trips and falls smack on his face,” Theo says. “The way Ro tells it, it was just, like, of his own accord—no one even checked him or anything. You need to see a video of it. It's fucking hilarious.”

Jeremy lifts a fork in protest. “That goal went in.”

“Yeah, because their goalie was too busy laughing to save it,” Alvarez says. “You need to see it, Moreau, it's on YouTube somewhere—”

“In my defense, I was a freshman and my high school team used to just rely on me to score,” Jeremy says. He's waiting for a reaction, but Jean just looks back at him, eyebrow raised. “You think full halves are bad? Try ninety minutes on a repurposed basketball court.”

“You were seventeen and hopped up on Red Bull and cafeteria pizza,” Theo says, rolling his eyes. “Think you can do that now?”

“Luckily,” Jeremy says, stealing some of Theo's broccoli, “I don't need to do it now. Even when you—” he points his broccoli at Alvarez—“start, and we defend, there's Katie or Pilar or Benji or—”

Alvarez interrupts him: “We get it, there's a very capable team helping you score goals, including sometimes me.”

“Is this always how he talks?” Jean asks, which Jeremy thinks is a sincere question until Alvarez and Theo both crack up. 

“Honestly? Yes,” Theo says. “You should see him playing video games. I mean, FIFA is just a nonstarter, he always plays as, like, Real Sociedad—”

“Your pronunciation's improving, I'm proud of you,” Alvarez says.

“—and is like, 'oh, that's okay, you be Manchester United'—”

“They're not even in the same league,” Alvarez says. Laila must've rubbed off on her. Jeremy considers making the joke, but Theo is too deep into his rant.

“—and then if you play something with, like, guns, he turns into Captain America all of the sudden. He's like 'Hello this is the job for righteousness! We will win because we have the power of good on our side'—”

“Look, just because I get into character—I take all games _very_ seriously.”

“That does not surprise me,” Jean says. He is, finally, smiling. Jeremy rolls his eyes and grins back. 

“Um,” Alvarez says.

Jean clears his throat and breaks eye contact. “What else?”

Theo looks next to him at Jean and then back to Jeremy. “What else what?” 

“What else has Knox done to embarrass himself in front of a crowd of ten thousand?”

“Oh, God, yeah, there's plenty of that,” Theo says, launching into a story about Jeremy insisting on playing despite being practically on his deathbed with mono his sophomore year.

*

It's weird not being tired at the end of the day. When he isn't sidelined, Jeremy usually works out twice a day at least: morning practice and afternoon practice, plus long runs or bike rides a few times a week for conditioning.

Cutting all of that out at once has destroyed his routine. He doesn't have anything to do between classes except help Rheman prep for their game against Pomona on Friday—Jeremy won't be playing, but luckily Pomona aren't very good and the Trojans are, even without him. He isn't hungry at mealtimes. He isn't sleepy at night.

Jeremy wakes up too early. The digital watch on his nightstand tells him it's five-thirty. Across the room, Jean shifts in his sleep, lets out half a word, and then settles again.

Jeremy squeezes his eyes shut, passes a hand uselessly over his face, and gets up to brush his teeth.

When he gets back, Jean's unrest has returned. He's twisting violently in his sheets, and he keeps saying things in what must be Japanese. Jeremy's first clouded thought is that he should ask their half-Japanese freshman, Rachel, to translate. He gets a glass of water instead. Then he puts on his headphones and sits down on his bed, determined to give Jean his privacy.

But then Jean lets out a strangled shout, and Jeremy figures embarrassment is probably a little better than having to remain in whatever personal hell his subconscious has created, so he says, “Jean.”

Jean doesn't respond. Jeremy hesitates, but he crosses the room and reaches out to lightly touch Jean's shoulder. 

Jean startles awake immediately, sitting straight up and almost knocking the glass of water out of Jeremy's hand. He looks at Jeremy, dazed, and then he says, “Did I wake you?”

“No. I—”

But he's cut off; Jean has bolted off his bed and into the bathroom, leaving the door open. Jeremy follows him in, still hesitant, and looks carefully away while Jean throws up. 

When he sounds like he's done, Jeremy wordlessly holds out Jean's toothbrush and toothpaste. Jean doesn't move from his spot on the floor, just brushes his teeth there, looks up at Jeremy with the brush still in his mouth.

“Sorry,” Jean says, a little toothpaste foam dribbling onto his chin.

Jeremy holds out a hand. “You need to spit, and you need some water.”

Jean lets Jeremy pull him up and turns to spit into the sink. He rinses his mouth out before digging a prescription bottle out of the medicine cabinet. He stares at it for a second, then puts it back.

“It's Klonopin,” Jean tells Jeremy without being asked. “I do not—usually I can predict this, and I take it at night.”

“They put me on that once. It gave me migraines.” 

“What do you take now?”

“For this? Nothing.” Jeremy rubs at one of his eyes. Nightmares haven't been an issue for him since he was in high school. “I usually go on antidepressants in the spring.”

“Is that when—” Jean trails off deliberately.

“Yeah. The rest of the year, like, CBT and mindfulness stuff works, but then the season ends, and—” Jeremy sighs. He doesn't like thinking about his mental health issues; going through the motions of taking care of them, therapy and meds when he needs them, is about as much as he can handle. “You want to go outside? Get some fresh air? It's probably early enough that we could get onto the roof.” Usually maintenance will be up there by nine, but they have some time before then. 

“You do not have to come.”

“Don't be stupid.” Jeremy leads Jean back into their room, digs his slides out from under his bed. “Unless you want to be alone, I mean.”

“No,” Jean says, “I don't.”

They take the stairs up to the roof, and Jeremy shows Jean how to break in with a credit card. 

“Technically, I think we're breaking out.”

“You must be feeling better if you're making jokes like that,” Jeremy says. 

They walk across the roof to the ledge, which comes up to Jeremy's belly button. Just high enough that falling off by accident would be close to impossible. He always thinks that when he comes up here.

“You really—you need to sleep,” Jean says, leaning against the ledge and sagging into himself.

“So do you.”

The streetlights are still on below them, but up here all the light comes from the L.A. sunrise. It bathes Jean in smoggy pink. Jeremy thinks he looks like a shot in a movie, all candy colored, like in Singin' in the Rain or the Wizard of Oz.

“You don't even look real sometimes, I swear,” Jeremy says without meaning to. It's early. He hasn't slept. “I mean—you could be, I don't know. Like a character in a movie.”

Jean shuffles closer so their shoulders bump. His arm is cold. It's breezy up here, or at least as breezy as it gets this early in the fall. 

“Thank you,” he says. “Sorry for waking you.”

“You didn't wake me. I'm not sleeping well, I guess because I'm not expending very much energy during the day.”

“You are supposed to be recovering from your concussion.”

“I feel fine,” Jeremy says. “I have class in a couple hours anyway. You going to go back to bed?”

“No.” Jean hugs himself. “I think I'll go to the gym.”

“You should really get some sleep,” Jeremy says. He hesitates. “You don't have to answer this, obviously, but—you were speaking Japanese. Was it about—you know. Him?”

Jean's nod is jerky, like he hasn't even decided to admit it to Jeremy. “It was just—dark.” He squints at the rising sun. “Everything inside the Nest is painted black.”

“Oh,” Jeremy says. “Jesus Christ.”

Jean shakes his head. “I know. I—let's go back inside. It's cold up here.” 

He looks up at the sun again, and then leads Jeremy back down to their floor.

*

Jeremy has to wear a suit for their home game against Pomona. He hates suits—something about the stiffness of the shoulders, the lack of give in the knees.

“Jesus, you are so California now,” Katie says, watching him bristle after Rheman gives his pre-game pep talk but before they're supposed to get back on the court. “I swear when we first met you were okay with occasionally wearing pants. I think I even saw you in jeans once.”

Rheman grabs Jeremy's shoulder before he can defend himself. “Get out of here, Knox, you're not going to trick me into playing you.”

Jeremy hasn't trained all week and he isn't an arrogant freshman anymore, so he won't put up a fight. “Whatever you say, Coach.” 

Still, sitting in the stands—not far from the bench, but still, in the stands—fucking sucks. Jeremy fiddles with his phone and leans forward in his seat, leans back again, rests his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, wishes the game would start already, and gets drawn into a conversation with someone who apparently owns stock in USC Athletics. 

“It's actually great, narratively speaking, because now everyone thinks of you guys as the underdogs,” the guy says. He has a salt and pepper beard and doesn't look like he's ever picked up a racquet in his life. “I mean, personally, I'd rather you just won all the time—but if you can turn the season around—”

“It's only been one game,” Jeremy interrupts. “There's not much to turn around.”

“Yeah, but you know what I mean—it's all about telling a story. That's all sports is, you know, a story—”

“I don't feel that way,” Jeremy says, and then remembers himself and smiles. “I think what we do is create a story, not tell one.”

The guy accepts this, laughs, and says, “Sure, sure. All I'm saying is, you win championships this year right after signing a contract with the Lightyears, you're going to make me a very rich man.”

“That's my goal,” Jeremy says. Then, before the guy can figure out if that was sarcasm or not, adds, “Look, we're starting. Pretty good lineup, right?”

The whistle blows, and the Trojans take off. Pilar started in Jeremy's place, but Benji has already warmed up to replace her at the twenty minute mark. Alvarez got the start—defensive, a heavy reliance on their fast sub strikers coming in with fresh legs to score at the end of the half. It's been the Trojans' go-to strategy since they brought Alvarez in three years ago. 

It works. Alvarez can always lock down the backline, and with Laila starting in goal, the Trojans are at their usual defensive best. What didn't work against the Ravens last spring wears Pomona out until, thirteen minutes in, Katie scores. 

Jeremy leaps to his feet, bangs a fist against the plexiglass. Katie lifts her racquet in his direction, grinning and sprinting back to the center circle. 

“She's good,” the USC Athletics guy says. “I heard a rumor Kansas City are after her.”

“Kansas City have never had a female player,” Jeremy says. 

“First time for everything. The sport's changing, you know that—Cleveland have a female captain now, and Seattle have more women than men.”

“That's a good thing,” Jeremy says. “You saw what Dan Wilds did at PSU.”

“You don't think that was all Kevin Day?”

“I think a team's a team, and the captain is the person who makes sure no one forgets that.” 

The guy grins. “I like you, Knox. How do you feel about the Lightyears?”

“I don't know,” Jeremy says. The Houston Lightyears are the current reigning champions of MLE and notoriously only take on college players who've been through their winter training camp. Jeremy hasn't been asked. “They're good, but I like seeing other teams win, you know? It'd be boring if they went undefeated again.”

“I didn't mean as an exy fan. I meant as a potential player.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I know one of their scouts. Why did you think I made sure I'd be sitting next to you?”

Jeremy stares at him, faintly disturbed, until the ball hits the wall nearby and they're surrounded by cheers. He looks out at the court. Katie just scored again; she's clacking her racquet against Jean's, which might mean that he assisted or started the play. Jeremy coughs and looks back at the guy. 

“What do you think?”

“I think that's an amazing opportunity,” Jeremy says. “But I don't want to overwork myself right before playoffs.”

The guy shrugs. “Come on. The Lightyears know everyone there still has playoffs to deal with. It's two weeks during winter break. You can spend Christmas at home with your—well, whoever it is you spend Christmas with. And then right before New Year's, you'll go to Houston, have a roommate, you and like twenty-five other seniors, and you'll just play exy all day. Show 'em what you can do.”

“Isn't the scout supposed to find me, not the other way around?”

“Look,” the guy says. “Exy is like everything else. You need to have connections. Everyone likes you.”

“I'm not trying to seem uninterested,” Jeremy says. “It's just hard to—I mean, it's really a huge opportunity.”

“Then say yes. I'll get in touch with him—he always listens to me—and we'll get you in touch with them.” 

“Okay,” Jeremy says. “I'm saying yes.”

“Excellent. Knew you'd come around. You want a pretzel? My treat.”

“Since I'm making you so rich?”

The guy laughs again. “Exactly.”

*

The Trojans win. Obviously. By quite a lot, too—six-nil even without their captain and best striker. The defense has never played better. The combination of Alvarez, Theo, Jean, and Laila is better than Jeremy could've dreamed. Theo is solid at the back, doesn't stray much; Jean likes to dart forward, weave past the opposing team's dealer and pass to a striker. It's why he replaced Rogelio—that's Rogelio's go-to move, too. Offense as the best defense, at least on the counter.

Laila gave pep talks right before the whistle blew for the start of the game and then during half time, but it's down to Jeremy to give the post-game. 

“I wish you knew how good you looked from outside,” Jeremy says. “Seriously. It was like watching a team that didn't even know how to lose. Defense, you dominated. The Sagehens never looked like they were going to score. Diaz, Kapoor—you closed it down at the end of the second half, well done, Mwangi and Nakamura owe you and Shereen for those goals. Moreau, Nowak, excellent display, great partnership. Abdul, Cas—I mean, what can I even say? A shutout? Against the Sagehens?” Jeremy grins, keeps going through the rest of the team, watching each of them accept his praise by turn. “I mean, there's stuff to work on, obviously—”

“Obviously,” Alvarez interrupts.

“Obviously,” Jeremy continues, “but we can focus on that tomorrow. I want to run up the score, I want to make sure we don't show any shakiness toward the end of the second half, I want to really refine the way we get our goals—but like I said, that's for practice tomorrow.” He stops, smiles. “Give it up for your captain, Laila Dermott Abdul.”

Everyone cheers; Laila does a little mock bow. 

“Alright everyone,” Jeremy adds. “Shower, get dressed, and then we're off to Sticks and Nets to eat and drink on the Trojans' dollar.”

“Are you going to keep the suit on?” Katie asks. “Very sexy, but you know everyone there's going to be wearing shorts right?”

Jeremy didn't think of that. His only change of clothes in the locker room is a clean jersey. 

“I'll just be the hottest person at the bar,” Jeremy replies, and ignores the whoops in response.

*

They take cabs to Sticks and Nets since the only person other than Laila who won't be drinking (doctor's orders) is also the one Trojan who doesn't drive, and Laila can't fit all of them in her car. Even though he'll be riding with Laila, Jeremy haggles his way into getting USC Athletics to pay for that, too, and then uses the team card liberally when they get to the bar.

“Honestly I think I expended too much energy to drink on an empty stomach,” Alvarez says, already two shots and half a beer in, slightly flushed. She's leaning into Laila heavily. “Knox, you're sober, go get us some food.”

“That's a good idea,” Jeremy says. The team always gets away with drinking here, even the freshmen, but he'll probably get them all in trouble if Alvarez throws up at their table. “Burgers, fries? Anything else?”

“Mozzarella sticks,” Alvarez says. “And nachos. And onion rings. Enough for everyone. Trojans are paying, right?”

“I mean, I'm not paying,” Jeremy says. “Anyone want to come help me carry everything?”

Jean raises a hand to volunteer, which is hilarious, and then follows Jeremy past their group of tiny tall tables, through the still-empty dance floor, up to the bar.

“This place is strange,” Jean says while they wait in line, looking up at the USC Trojans décor behind the bar—pennants and jerseys, a football helmet, a cleat that could be for soccer, a pair of exy racquets crossed on one side over a blended margarita machine.

“I think it looks like every sports bar with a dance floor in the country, maybe,” Jeremy says. “Except here they're our fans. They really don't have places like these in West Virginia?”

“The Ravens would never go to a place like this,” Jean says. 

“So you just never partied?”

“No, we partied.” Jean sips from his drink as if to underscore the point. “But it was not—we went to a nightclub his family ran.”

“A nightclub?” Jeremy says, smiling a little. At least this memory doesn't seem to be a painful one. “Do you dance?”

“I'm French.”

“So … no?” 

Jean raises an eyebrow. “I'm also Senegalese.”

“So yes?”

“Not half a drink in,” Jean says. 

“That's the French part of you speaking.” 

Jean takes another sip of his drink. “Maybe later.” 

“I'll hold you to that.” 

Their turn comes, and Jeremy orders the mountain of food.

“You know what, Jeremy, we'll find you,” Pete the bartender says. “You're looking snazzy tonight, by the way.”

“I didn't play,” Jeremy says. “They made me wear a different uniform.” Black suit, white shirt, Trojan-red tie, gold pin. It's a nice suit—Rheman even made him get it tailored. 

“I saw.” Pete squints at Jean. “Now you—I don't think any of us knew what to expect from you, but you're good. Just really fucking good.”

“Thank you,” Jean says, looking slightly perturbed.

“I mean, we all thought Knox was crazy when he announced it, but shit, Jeremy, maybe we should just start trusting you.” Pete laughs. “What about the Lightyears rumor I keep hearing? Want to share some gossip?”

Jeremy stares at him. Already? He said yes about five minutes ago. Well, a couple hours, but still. “What Lightyears rumor?”

“Apparently they're looking for a striker, and there's only one graduating senior they're interested in.”

“I haven't heard anything from them,” Jeremy says, which is honest. “I'll let you know how training camp goes. Can you put all the food on the Trojans' tab?”

He winks and turns away, making it halfway across the dance floor before he realizes Jean isn't with him. He turns back—Pete has left to take care of other customers, but Jean is staring after him, frowning. Jeremy goes back.

“What's wrong?” Jeremy says.

“You have been asked to their training camp?”

“Not formally. There was a USC Athletics guy with ties to the team who said I might be a good fit—why? What's wrong?”

“Nothing is,” Jean says. “That's really good.”

“I know. I mean, I don't know if that's the team I want to go to, but it's nice to have someone at that level interested, right? It means I'm probably not totally fucked.” Jeremy spreads his arms. “I mean, I literally have no other skills.”

“You could be one of those people they bring into offices to cheer everyone up,” Jean suggests. “Team-building exercises. Donuts and beach balls.”

“Hilarious. Yes, that's what I want to do with my life. Work in HR.”

“Do you think you would not be good at it?” 

He has another drink now, Jeremy thinks. How Jean ordered and received it in the two minutes they were apart, Jeremy doesn't know. 

“Hopefully I won't have to find out,” Jeremy says. “You're in a good mood tonight.”

“So are you.” 

Jeremy grins. “This is my baseline, you just haven't experienced it yet.”

“Because this is your first win of the season?”

“Our first win of the season,” Jeremy reminds him. “You ready to dance yet?”

“No,” Jean says. “I think that girl might take you up on it, though.”

Jeremy looks in the direction Jean is very un-subtly pointing. She's pretty—dark hair, nose ring, wearing real clothes and not just Trojans fan gear despite the fact that she's with the lacrosse team. 

“She's not my type,” Jeremy says, making eye contact with someone else in her group, a tall blond in a lax sweatshirt. 

“No? Not into edgy girls?” 

“Not into girls.” It's not really a secret, but he's tried to keep his romantic life private when talking to the college exy press, and it's been long enough since he dated anyone seriously that their teammates don't even really tease him about it anymore, so it's not that weird that Jean wouldn't know. Everything else about his life is on his Wikipedia page, whether he wants people to know it or not. 

“Oh,” Jean says. 

“You're not surprised, are you?” There's no way Jean is straight. “I mean, are you into girls?”

“I'm into people,” Jean says. He isn't looking at the girl across the bar anymore. “Gender isn't that important for me. Sometimes I forget that for other people it is.” 

“I think the food is going to beat us back to our table,” Jeremy says rather than explain what it is about men he likes. He's too sober to get into it.

“I don't mind.”

“Not a fan of crowds?”

“It's too loud to have a conversation when the whole team is there.” Jean finishes his drink and flags down the bartender for another. “But I understand. Hector needs to get back to Troy.”

“I'm kind of high off winning, so I'm just going to be frank,” Jeremy says. “Iliad references are super hot.”

Jean tilts his head to the side. He might be smiling; it could be a trick of the light. He picks up his new drink and leads Jeremy back to their table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me at my reflection in a planet fitness locker room: how do I make a character who we only know in canon as a cheerful bro from california complex?  
> mirror me: give him anxiety :)
> 
> please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	4. injustice

It's weird waking up from a night out without feeling hungover, weirder still when he's a little sore despite not playing. 

“Mmph,” Henry says, shifting when Jeremy does and opening his eyes. “Last night was fun.”

Jeremy laughs; it comes out raspy. “Was it?”

“You don't sound great.”

“From all the arguing, probably,” Jeremy says, letting himself be kissed. Henry's mouth tastes gross, but Jeremy's probably isn't much better.

“Do you have practice?”

“I do,” Jeremy says. “We play year-round, you know, so we always have to be in tip-top shape. Snow doesn't stop us.”

“It doesn't snow here,” Henry says. “Doesn't stop us either.” 

“You play proto-exy,” Jeremy says. “You're like—you know that caveman Lucy? That's what lacrosse is compared to exy.” 

“The whole point of your sport is to be violent,” Henry says, smoothing a hand through Jeremy's hair. “You just try to injure each other. Look at you—you didn't play last night for a reason. Lacrosse requires finesse.” 

“I'm here because I didn't play last night,” Jeremy says. “You should be thanking exy for being so violent.” 

Henry snorts. “Jesus. I should've known you'd be corny.” He reaches for the phone on his nightstand. “It's eight-thirty. When do you have practice?”

“Shit,” Jeremy says, climbing over Henry and reaching for his clothes, wishing they were anything other than a suit. “Now. I'll text you.” 

“You don't have my number,” Henry says.

“I'll find you on Facebook.”

“Do you want some shorts?” 

Jeremy looks up at him from where he's trying to get his foot in the right leg of his pants. “Yes. Please. God.”

Henry tosses him a bright red pair—it could almost be out of Jeremy's own wardrobe, except that below the crossed racquets it says USC LAX instead of USC EXY. 

“You're an angel,” Jeremy says, leaning back over to kiss Henry again. 

“Now you have to message me. I know you're too noble to steal my shorts.”

“You don't know anything about me,” Jeremy replies, even though Henry is definitely right. He tugs on his undershirt, grabs his shoes, and dashes up the stairs to the exy floor.

Jean is already gone—another blessing. Jeremy takes a quick shower, dries off, and gets dressed just in time for someone to knock on his door.

“Wow, you look like shit for someone who isn't even hungover,” Alvarez says. “You want a ride?”

“How did you know I was still here?”

“Heard your shower running, figured it was you or Jean, decided to be nice. Come on, Laila's driving, she feels terrific. Did you hear her singing this morning? Ugh. Mwangi almost strangled her.”

“And you?”

“She brought coffee, so I couldn't complain. Are you ready?”

“Yeah, let's get out of here,” Jeremy says, sticking his phone and wallet in his pocket and following her to the elevator. “Did she bring you food too, or just coffee?”

“You know Rheman'll have breakfast.”

“I'm hungry now.”

“You didn't even play last night, why are you—oh, shit, Knox, is that why you're late?”

Jeremy runs a hand through wet hair. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Was it that lacrosse player you were flirting with?”

“He was nice.”

“No, he wasn't,” Alvarez says as they reach the door. Laila is idling just outside, window down, sunglasses on. She looks too glamorous to just be an athlete on her way to practice. “Nice isn't your type, anyway.”

“How would you know? And yes he was, he gave me his shorts.”

“He just wanted everyone to see you in lacrosse clothes so they'd think you betrayed the only good racquet sport.”

“Tennis is okay,” Laila says. “Morning, Knox. You fucked a lax bro?”

“Morning, Abdul. Don't you fuck a lax sis all the time?”

“Jesus,” Alvarez says. “All it took was one night for you to start calling exy lacrosse. What would happen after a week? You'd want to start playing outside?”

Jeremy raises an eyebrow enigmatically. “Who can say? I'll keep you posted.”

“Posted?” Laila glances up at Jeremy in the rearview. They're almost at the gym already—it's really too close to drive. “Are you seeing him again?”

“He stole his shorts,” Alvarez informs her. “It's like Cinderella.”

“Fuck off,” Jeremy says, laughing, as they pull in.

*

Even though Rheman brought bagels and coffee to their meeting, the Trojans end up going to the athlete dining hall for a second breakfast. For all of them to fit, they need to push together four tables and claim them with windbreakers; Rogelio even leaves his racquet there.

Now that he's caffeinated, Jeremy doesn't feel like he needs much more food—Alvarez is right, after all; he didn't play last night. He follows Jean to the omelet station anyway. 

“Hangover?” Jeremy asks when Jean doesn't say anything.

“No.”

“Is that a French thing or a Senegalese thing?” 

Jean examines the ingredients in front of them, chopped up peppers and raw mushrooms. “I didn't drink enough for it.” 

“Come on, you were three drinks in thirty minutes into the night,” Jeremy says. “That's pretty fast.” 

“I switched to soda water after the third,” Jean replies, piling his plastic bowl high with various vegetables. Jeremy opts for spinach and cheese. “Why are you counting my drinks?”

“I'm not,” Jeremy says, a little bemused. “I just—you were a little quiet.” 

“No, I wasn't.”

“Not at practice. I mean—just now.”

“Aren't you tired?” Jean asks, not looking at him.

“What, are you annoyed that I went home with someone? I didn't play last night, I needed to get all that excess energy out—Jean, what is it?”

“Nothing,” Jean replies, handing his bowl to the omelet cook. “Can you keep it a little runny, please?”

The cook nods; Jeremy says, “Did I do something? I didn't mean to overstep, if that's what I—I mean, if you feel like I—maybe like I abandoned you or something at the bar? I didn't meant to like—I figured you were with the team—”

Jean sighs. “Please stop it. You did not abandon me. I was with the team.”

“Then why are you annoyed?”

“I'm just tired. It was a long night, and we are all up early.”

Jeremy has seen Jean after not getting enough sleep before, and this isn't it. “Okay.” 

“I'm going to get coffee,” Jean says. “Are you going to follow me there too?”

“I—no. Sorry.” 

“You didn't do anything,” Jean says, and disappears into a sea of athletes.

*

The best part of the weekend is Sunday afternoon, when Bobbie finally okays Jeremy's return to practice. He feels like a bird let out of a cage and, as such, almost reinjures himself sprinting from Bobbie's office to the exy practice court.

He gets to practice before everyone else, so he sets up the cones for full-team drills wearing his headphones. 

The rest of the team trickles in slowly—Laila and Alvarez first, Alvarez hooting when she sees Jeremy wearing exy equipment. Then Jean and Theo, dragging all the racquets in with them. The rest of the backliners follow, Rogelio babbling at a Jean who barely answers him. All the freshmen come in at once like they were all just at lunch together, which they probably were.

“Shit, dude, you're back?” Benji says. “Thank fuck, honestly, I love Abdul, but—”

“Careful,” Jeremy says. “She'll be your captain in a few months. You don't want to piss her off now.”

“—but I didn't want her to overwork herself.”

“Mediocre save,” Laila says. “Nice try.” 

When the rest of the team gets there, Jeremy gives himself a brief reintroduction—“I'm back, but please don't hit me in the head if you can avoid it”—and then dives straight into practice. 

It's stupid that he depends so much on exy for physical and emotional fulfillment. He shouldn't. He should find something else, something he could do injured, just as a backup plan.

Still. Jeremy can't control how light he feels now that he's back out here, running drills and calling out plays. He sends a prayer up to his grandmother—he probably wouldn't have had this without her—and runs.

*

Jean is still avoiding him, which is fine, because they have practice together twice a day and share a dorm room, so it's not like any of his evasion tactics will actually be fruitful.

Except that they kind of are. Jean already leaves the room before Jeremy most days, and Jeremy isn't going to stop practice to make Jean discuss their personal problems. It takes Jeremy most of the week to get Jean alone, and when he does, it's pure coincidence. Jeremy is getting back from a long bike ride on Wednesday night and almost crashes into Jean getting on the elevator. 

“Oh,” Jeremy says, a little surprised. “Where are you coming back from?”

“The library.” Jean blinks at Jeremy, a little owlishly, takes in Jeremy's sweaty clothes and helmet. “Where did you go?”

“Glendale,” Jeremy says. “Have you been yet?”

Jean shakes his head. 

“There are hella parks there, so I just went down a couple trails and then came back. I—we should go sometime.” 

“You always say that,” Jean says. The elevator arrives on their floor, and Jeremy follows Jean out.

“I mean, I don't drive, but we could bike or use public transportation.”

“Not that,” Jean says. “You always say we should go places in L.A.”

“I mean, it's a great city. You haven't seen any of it yet.”

“I'm a little busy.”

“There's off weeks,” Jeremy says. “And home games, and breaks. I'm always down. Just say the word.”

Jeremy swipes his ID in their door to open it. Jean drops his things on his bed, then switches his backpack for his duffel and says, “I'm going to the gym.”

“Now? Didn't you already work out today?”

“I want to practice.”

“Let me come with you.”

Jean stares at him. “Why?”

“Because if you're going to do some fancy Ravens shit, I want to learn it, too.”

“I'm just going to run some drills.”

“Teach them to me. Come on, the team accepted the other ones pretty well, and you have to admit our defending has been better.”

“It's been one game. And you just got back from a fifteen mile bike ride.”

“Let's get to it before I shower, then.” 

“I don't think—maybe we should do this another night.” 

“If you don't want to, we don't have to,” Jeremy says. “But I'm ready right now.”

Jean is quiet for a long time. Then: “Okay. Let's go, then.”

The drill Jean sets up when they get to court is a simple one: Jean will try to dispossess Jeremy, and Jeremy will dodge. They do a variation on it every day; Jean insists this one is better.

“Why didn't you say anything?” Jeremy asks, watching Jean cradle a ball.

“You didn't ask for my input.”

“We always want to hear it. We can't know something better's out there if no one points it out.”

“Next time, I'll point it out.” Jean twists his wrist a little. “Get the ball.”

It takes a few minutes, but Jeremy eventually does wrest it away from Jean. In response, he's treated to a Jean who manages to predict every one of Jeremy's dodges and feints. Whatever direction Jeremy decides to veer off in, Jean is there to meet him, somehow guessing at Jeremy's arbitrary twists and turns. 

“You are going to hurt yourself,” Jean observes, an hour into this. 

“Tired already?”

“I've played through worse,” Jean replies, which must be meant to throw Jeremy off, because an instant later Jeremy finds himself being slammed against the wall and dispossessed. 

Jeremy raises his racquet, hits Jean's a little too hard. The ball bounces out of the shallow net and rolls away. Jean starts toward it, but Jeremy grabs his arm.

“Stop it. You're right, I'm done.” 

Behind the visor, Jean's eyes dart to Jeremy's hand. Jeremy lets go. “Because you lost the ball?” 

“No. I—you're right. I'm going to hurt myself again, and it's not—I mean, it's not worth it just for—I don't know. Whatever we're doing.” 

“I thought you wanted to learn Ravens drills,” Jean says carefully.

“We don't need to play like this for that.” 

“You like playing like this.”

It's true. Jeremy doesn't really have an argument to contest that. But his legs and lungs ache, and if he's expecting Jean to somehow spill whatever's going on with him, it doesn't seem like it's going to happen any time soon. 

“I'm going to go shower.”

“I'm staying here,” Jean says. “If that's okay.”

“Just don't overdo it.” 

“Yes, Captain.” 

“Jean—” Jeremy says, but has absolutely no idea how to finish the sentence. He doesn't know why he thought this would work. “See you later.”

*

None of the Trojans have Friday classes, so they fly to Seattle early on Friday with the intention of seeing UW's court and settling into their hotel a little.

It does nothing to calm the team's pre-game jitters, but Jeremy talks them down from it at lunch and then again before the game. By the time they step out onto the court, the entire team is sure of their inevitable victory over UW.

Jeremy takes his position, a couple of feet behind where Alvarez stands at the center, ready to deal. His heartbeat is steady. Unlike the other Trojans, this is the only time he isn't anxious—right before a game. They're far from home, a three hour flight weighing them down, all ten thousand people around them supporting the other team.

It doesn't matter. Jeremy hasn't played since their loss to Stanford. His team surrounds him. He rolls his shoulders and waits for the whistle. 

He plays hard. All the Trojans do. Staying back, defending; driving forward any chance they get; drawing yellows and reds from the other team through sheer frustration. At twenty minutes, Rheman signals, and Jeremy is subbed off for Pilar. Normally it'd be twenty-five or thirty.

“We don't want to aggravate your injury,” Rheman tells Jeremy, who nods and tugs off his helmet, running a hand through damp hair. 

They're up four-nothing at halftime. Rheman gives a halftime talk, and then Jeremy buzzes through a pep talk. He can barely stay put through the first twenty-five minutes of the half—he'll be going on at the end to really cement their win, run up the score, help the Trojans climb up the table—and annoys everyone.

“You need to sit down,” Theo tells him, fifteen minutes in. “Seriously. You're giving me anxiety.”

“It's not anxiety, it's adrenaline. Look at how well we're playing!” 

“We played like this last week, too, Cap.”

Right, but Jeremy wasn't playing then. He sits still, finally, or at least sits down. On the court, Jean is playing keep-away with the opposition striker. Every time the striker gets the ball, Jean is there, clean checks, tricky racquet-work. The ball flops out of the striker's net over and over again. The striker must be pissed by now—Jean has blocked at least four of their attempts.

“He's good on counterattacks, but he's good at marking, too,” Jeremy says. 

Shereen follows his gaze. “They never used him like this when he was at Edgar Allan, did they?” 

“No.” Jeremy finds himself grinning. “They didn't.”

“That's because they never had to,” Theo says. “What were their possession averages last season? Like seventy, eighty percent? Who needs to mark anyone when your team has the ball the whole game?”

“But he can do it,” Shereen says. “Versatility is underrated.” She's probably talking about herself—she mostly plays as an offensive dealer, but she graduated high school as a striker. The Trojans gave her a new position when she proved her interest in setting up plays instead of finishing them.

Jeremy remembers his drills with Jean a few weeks ago. “He probably picked it up from playing against other Ravens.” 

“So he's using the same tricks he learned from marking Riko?” 

“Yeah, I think so,” Jeremy says, watching the way Jean darts just out of the opposition striker's reach as soon as he gets the ball. 

Jean draws a foul out of the striker. Rheman signals for a sub and gestures to Jeremy, who tugs his helmet on and jogs onto the court to switch spots with Katie.

“Hat trick,” he says, smiling. “Nice one.”

“Finish 'em off, Cap,” Katie says, slapping Jeremy's back. 

He gets into position just as Alvarez makes way for Shereen. There are twenty minutes left on the clock, and if Jeremy has his way, UW won't know what hit them. 

The whistle blows. Shereen deals. Pass, pass, pass, jog, pass, rebound, pass, pass, sprint up the left wing (not Jeremy's preferred side, but Pilar is opposite him and—Shereen would scoff—a tad less versatile), rebound off the wall, check to get it back, shoot, goal.

Eight-two. Pilar clacks sticks with Jeremy as they move back to center court. 

Jeremy might black out for the next ten minutes. He isn't a brain anymore, concussion or otherwise; he's a body and a racquet. He shouts out plays when he needs to, but otherwise he's focused on nothing except scoring more goals. Running up the score. The mean part of him wants to embarrass UW. The California Golden Boy part of him says he should sit back and help defend. 

Jean sends a ball so far down the court that it rebounds and sails back toward Jeremy's racquet. Jeremy only lets himself dwell on his hatred for the Moriyamas and appreciation for their understanding of the sport for a second before taking the ball down the court. He's scored twice already. Katie has three, Pilar two, Benji none. 

Jeremy glances to his right. Pilar is struggling with a backliner. The Huskies' goal is open. 

It barely takes any effort. Nine-two. They should keep back now, defend their lead, try not to embarrass the Huskies. Jeremy signals: don't try to score unless it falls into your lap. Defend Mo in goal. 

Play resets. Pilar switches with Benji; Jean switches with Dev; Shereen makes way for Caleb, a freshman whom Jeremy keeps calling versatile when what he really means is that they haven't figured out if he's a better defensive or offensive dealer. Jeremy gets back on the right. 

This time, when a pass comes his way, Jeremy sends it toward Benji. He doesn't have a goal yet, has only scored twice all season, probably needs one. The Huskies are crumbling: now is the best time for Benji to build up his confidence. 

He passes back to Jeremy. They take it up the court. Benji misses, but it rebounds in Jeremy's direction. He thwarts a UW backliner and passes is back to Benji, who gets checked and loses the ball again. 

Caleb recovers it before any of the Huskies can make it past center court. He tosses it back, where Dev and Theo cheerfully keep the ball to themselves. Five minutes to go. 

“Knox!” Benji calls, and then he's sending the ball over his mark's head toward Jeremy. Jeremy catches it, evades another backliner, and passes back to Benji. Benji takes ten steps, passes to Jeremy, gets the ball right back, and hesitates.

“Just fucking shoot!” Jeremy shouts.

Benji looks around at Jeremy, then hurls the ball at the wall just in time for a UW backliner to drive into him, full-force. 

Ten-two. Jeremy jogs over to make sure Benji is okay—he crumpled against the wall, but the ref signaled that the check was legal—and is greeted by a nosebleed and a grin.

“Nice one,” Jeremy says, hauling Benji up. “You need treatment. Get out of here.”

“I can finish!”

“You're bleeding. We can't keep you on the court.”

“It's four minutes.”

“I'm aware,” Jeremy says. “Still illegal for you to get your blood all over the place.” He knocks his knuckles against Benji's helmet. “You did good. Bobbie's waiting for you.”

“He elbowed me. Do you think my nose is broken?”

“Do you want it to be broken?”

“I've always wanted to look kind of rugged,” Benji says. 

The ref is jogging over to them. “What's the deal, Knox?”

“He needs to come off,” Jeremy says, gesturing to Benji's nose. “Give us a minute. He took a nasty hit.”

“Hurry it up, I don't want to delay any more than we have to. Or get any blood on the wood.”

“Yeah, because that's the issue here,” Jeremy says. “Not number eight's check. Doesn't an injury like this to an opposition player warrant a yellow at least?”

“Give it up. You're eight goals ahead. You think taking Woodbridge off is going to make a difference?”

“It's about the principle and legality, not the score. That was bullshit and you know it. The rules don't change if one team is—”

The ref holds up a yellow card. At first, Jeremy thinks it's for Woodbridge. Then he gets it.

“Wait, you can't be giving me a card because I told you that you were fucking wrong,” Jeremy says. He straightens. “Woodbridge elbowed him in the face. That's illegal.”

“You want to make this a red? I don't mind. Have you ever given up a penalty before?”

“What's your name?” Jeremy asks. 

“Knox, it's not worth it,” Benji says. “Just shut up and don't ruin our record.”

Jeremy turns, opening his mouth, but then Katie finally gets there, helping Benji off the court and then taking her position at the center.

“You have fifteen seconds to get back there,” the ref says. 

Fine. _Fine_. 

Jeremy intends to take his temper out on the ball. Moments ago, he wanted to keep the score at nine-two, then conceded that it'd be better for Benji to score than to keep the ball back; now, he wouldn't mind scoring another ten in the last four minutes. He and Katie are a good enough partnership for it even if their attack-minded backliners are on the bench. 

“Fuck,” he says aloud, quietly, before the whistle blows. “Relax.” 

The whistle blows. The Huskies' backliner deals. Jeremy wrests the ball away from one of their strikers before they can pass him, then takes a half-beat to decide to pass it back.

Theo keeps it there. He and Dev run down the clock, passing between themselves and Caleb. 

When the final whistle blows, Jeremy exhales through his teeth, pulls his helmet off, and finds the Huskies captain. 

“That check was bullshit and you know it,” Jeremy says, peeling off one of his gloves. “Elbows are illegal.”

“Look, dude, I'm not the ref,” the captain says. “If it were my freshman, I'd be pissed too.” 

Jeremy bro-hugs him anyway, then seeks out the referee who carded him. 

“Knox, part of being a referee is using judgment about the run of play. I don't think you—”

“It's fine,” Jeremy interrupts. “I wanted to apologize for my language.”

The referee stares at him. Jeremy smiles and holds out a hand. 

“You are such a weirdo,” Katie says when he passes her on his way to the locker room. 

“I shouldn't have lost my temper,” Jeremy replies, clacking sticks with a Husky walking by them.

“I swear there was a second when you were going to score like four more,” Katie says.

“If we weren't ten-two already, I would have.”

“I love that you think just, like, pure rage can carry you through that many goals.”

“Against that defense?” Jeremy unstraps the other glove, flexes sweaty fingers. “It could have. Let's get out of here.”

Rheman's post-game is quick; his sole message for Jeremy is “Good on you for not embarrassing them,” and then all of them get in the shower. Jeremy will deliver some kind of team talk on the bus to the hotel. For now, he wants to get into clean clothes and get the fuck away from UW.

*

After his team talk, Jeremy just wants to sit on the bus alone. He knows it's an unreasonable reaction to winning, but he's in a pissy mood. Woodbridge or whatever his name was deserved at minimum a yellow, probably worse. An elbow to the face isn't allowed. He could've knocked Benji out. He could've broken his nose. Worse, Jeremy lost his temper and nothing even came of it except a yellow card. It's fine. He's gotten yellows before. They're part of the game.

Still.

Henry messages him congratulating the Trojans on their win. Jeremy tries to think of a snarky reply and fails, just sends back an emoji, and stares down at his phone like there's anyone else to text. Pretty much everyone he knows is sitting on this bus right now. 

A shadow falls over Jeremy's seat. “You don't look happy for someone who just won by a landslide.” 

Jeremy looks up. Jean, tall and broad, is filling the space in front of him. 

“Of course I'm happy.”

“I thought you didn't have a temper.”

Jeremy stares at him. “No, you didn't.”

“Before I came here, I mean. You were always so … genial.”

“It's not like I get mad at nothing. That ref fucked us.”

“And then you hugged their captain,” Jean says.

Jeremy turns away, looking at the rows in front of him. Alvarez and Laila are two seats up, talking to Dev and Shereen animatedly while Katie looks up liquor stores near their hotel on her phone. “It's the sportsmanlike thing to do.” 

“The sportsmanlike thing to do.” 

“I'm just—trying not to be an asshole. All the time.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“You should try it.”

Jean exhales sharply. Jeremy twists again to look back at him.

“I didn't mean that,” Jeremy says. “Sit down.”

Jean sits down. “Are you going to pick a fight with someone every week?”

“I didn't pick the fight last time.”

“Benji said he got you to cool off by saying you'd lose your record.”

“He said we'd lose our record,” Jeremy says, moving over to give Jean more room. “I'm not giving that up just to yell uselessly at a ref.”

“He knew how to get to you.”

Jeremy laughs, a little ruefully. “Everyone knows. Even the freshmen. That's why you're the only one who came over here to talk to me.”

“You wanted space?”

“I'm still cooling off.” 

“Do you want me to leave?”

“I wouldn't have asked you to sit down if I wanted you to leave.” 

“Can I ask you a question?” Jean says, scooting another inch or so away from Jeremy. He always does that before asking questions. Jeremy doesn't like to wonder why. “Are you ever happy, or do you spend all your time stressed about injustice?”

That startles another laugh out of Jeremy. “Jesus. I don't know. Does it have to be one or the other? I think it's both.”

“It sounds exhausting to be you.” 

“It's okay,” Jeremy says. “Could be worse.”

Jean doesn't have a response, or at least doesn't articulate one. He stares at Jeremy like there's something to figure it out.

“Jean—I really didn't mean it. I don't think you're an asshole.” 

“I am,” Jean says. “Sometimes. Earlier this week, I—it wasn't you. I was annoyed at something, and you were there.”

“I'm sorry I pushed,” Jeremy says. “I know I can be kind of—a lot.” His grandmother used to tell him as much. It never stopped him, somehow.

“You're fine,” Jean says. “Are you cleared to drink yet?”

“I guess so. Why? You have something?”

“Alvarez brought a Sprite bottle with Malibu in it.”

“That sounds gross,” Jeremy says. “Is she passing it around?”

Jean produces the bottle in question. “I stole it. She wasn't going to drink the whole thing by herself, and Abdul doesn't drink.”

Jeremy grins and takes the bottle when Jean passes it. “Why didn't you open with this?”

He was right. It is pretty gross. He chugs some of it anyway, enjoys the near-instant lightness in his head, and gives it back to Jean. 

“Nowak and Diaz are trying to figure out who played better tonight,” Jean says, half standing. “Your perspective would probably be valuable.”

“Are you trying to get me to socialize, Moreau? How the tables have turned.”

“I was much easier to convince,” Jean says. 

“I don't remember it that way,” Jeremy says, but he follows him to where the backliners are arguing anyway.

*

In the morning, a little hungover but otherwise clear-headed, Jeremy has changed his mind.

His experiment, which has failed on both occasions on which they've tried it—against the Foxes in semifinals it felt inevitable anyway, and Jeremy appreciates the nobility of his action even if there's that nagging voice in his head that says maybe last year would've been their year, with the Ravens lacking their star backliner; but Riko falling apart probably wouldn't have happened against the Trojans—is put off until they face weaker competition. 

Jeremy doesn't care. They won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i named woodbridge after my favorite $13 1.5L bottle of cabernet hehe
> 
> i'm on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com). please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	5. party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you've probably read some of this chapter before on my tumblr but I think I changed it enough to make for an interesting reread. That bit was always meant to be the base for this fic but it changed a lot in the process of writing. If you're interested in the ways this story has evolved since I first came up with the idea check out the original [here.](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com/post/160888852538/jerejean-in-the-rain)

With the Trojans' squad returned to full strength and some of Jean's drills incorporated into practice, they demolish their competition. Laila, Mo, and Cas keep shutouts up and down the coast. Saint Mary's—the second best team in California—get three goals at the Trojan Arena. The Trojans score eight. A rout at Loyola Marymount. Nine-nothing at home to Pepperdine. 

“It's the endurance,” Laila suggests at a meeting in late October, when they're going over the Pepperdine game. “Jeremy's idea is actually kind of working. Most of our goals come at the end of halves, when other teams start slipping up.”

“It might be time to try it again in a real competitive setting and not just at practice,” Jeremy says. “Obviously it wouldn't have worked against Saint Mary's, but weaker competition—Pepperdine? We could've gone full halves against them, easy.”

“It's not just the endurance,” Rheman says. He indicates an X on the blackboard. “It's our backline. The chemistry you've created—” he gestures to Jean, Theo, Alvarez, and Laila, who in fact are sitting huddled together. “—is what has us so far up the table. We know we can score goals. It's keeping the other team from doing them that's been our priority. Between starting with a defensive dealer to protect the goal and focusing our fastest offense on the ends of halves, we're dominating. It's good to be confident, but that could end if we don't continue to improve.”

Jeremy grins. “UCLA at home. We try full halves again. If it goes sideways after the first forty-five, we can drop it, but if it works, we try a full game next time we're up against weaker opposition.” He examines his teammates reactions. No one looks anything other than completely game for it. They know what he knows—on the west coast, they're so far ahead of most other teams that the only real way they can improve is like this. No one else will challenge them, so they'll have to challenge themselves. That is, if they want to win this year.

“I agree,” Rheman says. “First half. No subs. If it works, we'll switch out some of you, but then no subs in the second half, either. If you want to be part of that, impress me this week.”

*

Afterward, the Trojans get lunch at the dining hall together. They push together four tables to fit all of them, and Jeremy ends up next to Laila, across from Theo, and diagonal from Jean.

Theo and Jean are talking quickly in low voices, Theo laughing behind his hand at whatever Jean said. Alvarez, on Jeremy's other side, is saying something that Jeremy half-listens to. Jean is holding a forkful of chicken an inch away from his mouth, distracted by his conversation.

Jeremy thinks, it's good that Jean and Theo are friends. He thinks, Jean has been in L.A. for six months already.

Jean is two thousand miles away from the person he was when he moved to L.A. Jeremy thought, in those first few weeks when he rarely saw Jean outside of the court, that Jean would never adjust. He still hasn't, not completely, but at least he has friends. 

His jaw is sharp. That's to be expected, really; Jean has the attitude of someone with a sharp jaw. What's more surprising is the slight uptick at the corner of his mouth. Jean doesn't give off the aura of someone with an active sense of humor, but it's there anyway, in probably the tiniest possible expression, just a little quirk to show that he finds Theo amusing.

Jeremy thinks, I'm staring. He thinks, I should stop staring. He thinks, Henry was supposed to fix this.

He tears his gaze away and returns to the conversation at hand, which has evolved into a discussion of their post-game plans. UCLA are their biggest rivals and so always a big game, but USC haven't actually lost to them in exy since before Jeremy's time. And so they're planning parties. 

“Yeah, no, we can host Friday,” Jeremy says, looking back to Jean to confirm. Jean doesn't say anything, which is basically confirmation, coming from him. The two of them share the biggest suite, courtesy of Jeremy's captaincy and Jean's mitigating circumstances. Big shared bedroom including a table for eating, mini-kitchen, their own bathroom. Perfect for a party. “We can go out downtown Saturday and then do hungover brunch Sunday.”

“He's using his captain voice,” Theo says, a little teasing. “That means it's serious, guys.”

The table slips back into chatter—which bars they'll go to, whether they should get their names on the list at some club, brunch reservations, who will bring what alcohol, which of the under-21s need to procure fakes by the weekend—and Jeremy looks back at Jean.

He's wearing blue. Navy blue, but still. Not black. It looks nice on him. Jeremy doesn't know why he's just noticing it now—he was there when Jean got dressed in the locker room, pulling the sweater on directly over still-damp skin. The fabric stuck in some spots. One place in particular, just above a scar on Jean's side, the skin there too many shades lighter than the rest of Jean's skin to be just a tanline. Wet, too, like he couldn't reach it with a towel.

It looks nice on him. The blue.

Someone is pinching Jeremy's leg. He looks down: black-tipped fingernails. He looks around: Laila, cradling her chin in her free hand, looking for all the world like she's about to fall asleep in her soup.

“I agree,” Jeremy says loudly. “Their offense has nothing on our backline.” If he weren't captain, he'd say UCLA are nothing to worry about. “We can play full haves again against them. Try and hone it before playoffs start. If it goes horribly wrong, there's always the second half to make changes.”

Some people groan now that Rheman can't see them, but they like the idea. They like the experiment of it, getting better, forcing themselves to run full forty-fives. The exhilaration that sets in after the first twenty, adrenaline for the last five minutes. The ache the next day.

More Trojans go pro than any other team in the NCAA. More Trojans end up on US Court than any other team in the NCAA. That's not a coincidence.

Jeremy grins. “Come on. It'll be fun.”

Jean raises an eyebrow and half-shrugs back. Jeremy didn't realize he was staring again, so he grabs his drink, chugs half of it before realizing he's accidentally grabbed Laila's sparkling water and not his own still. She doesn't say anything, just pinches his thigh again.

“I agree,” she says to the rest of the table, who are all probably aware that she is pinching Jeremy. “Full halves versus UCLA. Get fucking hype.”

*

“What are you doing here?”

Jeremy looks up from where he's actually winning for once at HQ Trivia. Henry is digging his ID out of his wallet and somehow maintaining eye contact at the same time. 

“Finally,” Jeremy says, sticking his phone in his pocket. “Thought I was going to have to wait out here all night.”

“This might be hard to believe, but I had practice.”

“Practice for what? Losing again?”

“Hilarious.” Henry finally finds his ID and lets them both into his room. “Not that it's not nice to see you, but I wasn't expecting you to come back here. In this context, I mean.”

“Had to return these,” Jeremy says, holding up the shorts.

“You didn't have to bring them back, you know,” Henry says. “I kind of liked the idea of exy captain Jeremy Knox walking around in lacrosse shorts.” 

“That's why I'm dropping them off.”

Henry tosses them in his hamper and steps closer. “I liked you better out of them, anyway.”

“You move quickly.”

“I'm hungry. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I get dinner.”

“Get this over with?” Jeremy laughs. “I get it. I'll go.”

Henry plants both hands on Jeremy's hips. “Don't. Have you eaten yet? We can order food.”

“Don't you eat with your team?”

“They'll live. Come on, we can Postmates something and in the meantime—” Henry kisses Jeremy's neck, and Jeremy feels any potential resolve crumble. “Unless you're busy.”

“I mean, I didn't plan on spending three hours here, but if you insist—”

“You talk too much,” Henry says, face still tucked against Jeremy's neck.

“Tell me about it,” Jeremy says, curling both fingers into Henry's waistband to tug him toward the bed.

*

“What do you think the most people would enjoy?” Jeremy says, looking at the array of 1.5L bottles of wine at the nearby liquor store. “Pinot noir? Cabernet?”

“Speaking of cabernet,” Laila says, “what's the deal with you and that tall glass of red?” She pauses, makes a face, and corrects herself: “God, pretend I didn't word it like that. How many bottles do you think we need?”

“I don't know … maybe five red and five white? Most people are going to stick with hard liquor, right?”

“I'm really the wrong person to ask,” Laila says. “Are you going to answer my other question?” 

“What other question?”

“You and the musketeer. What's up there?”

Jeremy tries to figure out the difference between two eight dollar giant jugs of red wine. “Are you asking me if I'm fucking my roommate, who also happens to be my teammate, who recently joined the Trojans after enduring God knows how much trauma from the Ravens leadership, when I'm someone who in general tries to be a good person and doesn't like the power dynamic that'd be at play if I slept with one of my teammates, especially one who has such a complicated history with his last captain?”

Laila doesn't hesitate. “Yeah.”

“I'm not.”

“But you'd like to?”

“He's hot,” Jeremy says. “We live together. It's only natural I'd be like, wow, Jean is hot. He is. That's the end of it.”

“And you don't want to fuck it out?”

“I don't know if he even has sex. He was like, low key judgey when I hooked up with Henry.”

“I heard he went out with someone on the water polo team,” Laila says. She puts both of the bottles Jeremy is examining into their cart. “He definitely has sex. He's just not as obvious about it as you.”

“I'm not obvious.”

“Are you serious? You came back from Henry's room looking like the cat that got the cream.”

“I don't understand what that means,” Jeremy says. He drifts past the wine section toward hard liquor. “Aren't cats lactose intolerant?”

“That's so not the point.”

“Okay, whatever, my sex life is private and has nothing to do with you. Or with Jean. Like I said, he's good looking, but that's the end of it.”

“Do you want that to be the end of it?”

“It doesn't matter. Nothing can happen while we're on the same team.”

“I didn't know you were so against intra-team relationships,” Laila says. “Do you think that's enough vodka?”

“Probably. Theo says he wants to teach Jean how to make jungle juice, so he'll bring that, so we don't need to go nuts here. And I'm not _against_ them—I just think, at this junction, that it would be unwise to, you know, pursue anything with someone in Jean's position.”

“At this junction? Jesus Christ. You know you're just talking to me, right?”

“I don't know where he's at in his recovery well enough to know if it would be ethical for me to try to sleep with him. Also, we literally share a room. Is that clear enough for you?” 

“So you're sleeping with the lax bro instead?”

“It's not _instead_ ,” Jeremy says. He adds a case of light beer to their cart and pushes it toward the checkout. “They're—unrelated.”

“Bullshit.”

“I don't want to talk about this anymore. I'm not going to try to hook up with Jean. He's just attractive. That's it. Just because there's a hot guy on the team doesn't mean I have to be in love with him. I don't see you trying to get into Katie's pants.”

“I did try,” Laila replies. She stacks the alcohol on the checkout counter and toothily smiles at the cashier, pulling out her driver's license. “It only happened a couple times, but it was fun.”

Jeremy fishes out the Trojans credit card and his own ID. “What? Why didn't I know this?” 

“Because unlike you, I can be into someone without the literal entire world knowing about it. What a concept.”

Now that he thinks about it, they did seem really close Laila's freshman year. “Look, I have it under control, okay? Why don't you explain to me why you and Alvarez were sitting on opposite sides of me at lunch? I felt like the only child during a divorce.”

“Me and Alvarez are peachy,” Laila says, piling their bags back into their cart. “Don't worry your pretty little head about that.” 

“Aren't you going to go to hell for this? Buying all the booze, I mean, not this conversation, although honestly, I'll tell Allah about that too—”

“I didn't buy it.” It's cloudy out, but Laila puts her sunglasses on as soon as they get back outside anyway. “I'm just the transporter. Can't be blamed for that. Allah probably agrees with me, though.”

“About what?”

“You being super annoying.”

“Me? I'm charming and friendly and beloved.” Jeremy grins at a group of passing USC students, who wave back. “See?”

“You want to drive yourself home?” Laila asks, unlocking her trunk and starting to pile the booze into it.

“You want me to wreck your car?”

Laila shudders. “Those jokes have not grown on me. I know you think they're funny, but Jesus, they're dark.”

“I know. Everyone hates them.”

“Put your seatbelt on,” Laila says, unnecessarily; Jeremy hasn't ridden in a car without his seatbelt on ever in his life maybe, which Laila knows. “Did we forget anything? Mixers?”

“Theo's getting them. Let's get out of here, I have class in ten.”

“Where is it? I'll drop you off.” 

“Psych building. You don't have class?”

“I do, but I also have a car.” Laila fiddles with the mirror with one hand. “Are you good?”

“I'd say it if I weren't.”

“I know. I just—sometimes I wonder.”

Jeremy looks out the window. There are other USC students in the parking lot, doing grocery shopping or getting ready for Friday night. He doesn't recognize many of them. 

“Laila,” he says. “I'm fine.”

“Good,” she says, and starts the car.

*

Earlier in the season, UCLA beat the Trojans in lacrosse. Jeremy thinks that if he and Henry were really dating, he could text him, promise him revenge.

Instead, when it's time to gear up, Jeremy shuts his phone off and leaves it in his locker. Full halves tonight means he can't be thinking about anything other than exy. They're going to win, he can feel it, but only if he maintains focus.

It's one of those weird pre-games where he isn't fully present. He smiles and encourages through warm ups and then via his pep talk, but he barely feels like he's in his own body. He puts a hand over his heart for the national anthem. He huddles with the team for a final good luck: “On three—one—two—three—TROJANS!” 

He shakes the UCLA captain's hand, clacks sticks with everyone on their team, gets into position. 

He closes his eyes.

The whistle blows.

All at once, he's back in his body. He never feels more whole than out here on a court, surrounded by his teammates, racquet an extension of his right arm. He thinks he was built for this, or maybe that he built himself for it. He's been training as an exy player since he was in elementary school. He remembers going from being tiny, getting picked on, starting fights—to being completely disciplined. A machine. 

Bruin number four crashes into him, holds him at the wall for as long as is legal, gets the ball away. Jeremy swears, waits for Jean to get the ball back from a UCLA striker, and catches the return pass. 

The strategy is different today. They've started with Alvarez. They're just defending right now, other than when Jeremy or Katie gets the ball. They'll switch for the second half, but right now, it's Jeremy driving forward whenever he can and otherwise circling the court to make trouble for UCLA's backliners.

Jeremy takes the ball down the court, avoiding UCLA number four this time. He swerves around another player, passes to Katie, sprints forward to catch her return. One-two, one-two, one-two, one—red. 

Katie's racquet connects with Jeremy's. Behind her helmet, she's grinning. They jog back to the center together and wait for UCLA to serve. 

Alvarez catches it. She passes back to Theo. He passes to Jean. Jean rolls it back to Laila, who smashes it forward only as far as Theo. They're playing keep-away, and UCLA are getting frustrated. 

One of them snaps, checks Theo before Theo can catch Jean's pass—except Jean's pass goes in another direction, toward Alvarez. Jean's feint gets USC a play restart, and this time Alvarez sends it to Jeremy, who passes to Katie, who uses all of her steps and then shoots. Goal. 

Back to center. UCLA serve, but Jeremy intercepts the pass, sends it back to Katie. No path forward—their backliners are huge and not likely to move forward anymore lest they concede more goals. UCLA's dealer, number seven, who is almost as tall as Jean and just as fast, is going for Katie. They've picked up on the strategy, and now they're trying to tire the Trojans out.

Katie looks up. Jeremy jerks his head back. She interprets the signal correctly and sends the ball toward Jean, who cradles it in his racquet—there's a reason his racquet has a deeper net than most backliners'—and sprints up the righthand side. Pass to Jeremy. Katie's still struggling with backliner number eight. Jeremy doesn't have any steps left, so he sends the ball back to Jean, waits for the return pass, takes all his steps, shoots. Goal.

UCLA can't park the bus now, and thirty minutes in, the Trojans are starting to get tired. It'd be the best time for the Bruins to try to put a goal in before the Trojans refresh their lineup, and they do try it. They get the ball past Jeremy and Katie, toss it over Alvarez's head to prevent an interception, and manage to avoid Jean and Theo. Pass, pass, shoot—Laila, who is very much not tired, saves. 

Cheers. Jeremy and Katie don't have the excess energy to run back to her, but Theo claps her on the back, and Jean clacks racquets with her. 

“One more,” Jeremy shouts. “Come on, guys—”

Alvarez serves. Theo and Jean pass it between them while the Bruins get more annoyed. Finally, Jean darts forward, connecting with Katie. Pass back to Alvarez. They keep it there for a while, ricocheting between the defense while the Bruins strikers—untrained for this kind of attack—miss. 

UCLA make more subs. The new backliners are faster than the other ones. They dispossess Theo, get the ball back to their strikers—but then Theo redeems himself. Passes to Alvarez, who passes to Jean, who passes to Jeremy—intercepted. Alvarez has to check a giant Bruin to get it back, scoops it up, sends it up toward Katie. 

Katie doesn't waste any time. She has incredible aim, even from half-court. She aims, shoots, goal. Four-nothing. 

Two minutes later, the half-time whistle blows. Jeremy is buzzing. He could play another forty-five right now, no break. He could run a marathon. 

“I can't believe this is actually fucking working,” Rogelio says when they get to the locker room. “You're insane, Knox, you know that?”

Jeremy is too out of breath to argue. He grins at Rogelio instead.

*

“You are really good,” the Lightyears scout says.

Jeremy is still wearing most of his exy equipment—only the helmet and gloves are gone. It doesn't feel like the right space for this, but the scout wanted to see him as soon as possible after the game, so the back office in the locker room will have to do. Even if there are years-old Trojans basketball schedules taped to the walls.

“Thank you,” Jeremy says. The reporter in the corner of the room is scribbling down notes. Jeremy tries not to look at her.

“We're not asking you to commit long term here,” the scout says. “But it's pretty evident you're dedicated to improving your game.”

“Not just mine.” Jeremy rolls a stiff shoulder. “The whole team's. That's the point of being the captain, I think.”

“I have it on good authority this full halves thing was your idea.”

“Not exactly. I'm copying another team that rode full games all the way to the championship last year.”

“Right, but the Foxes were dropping like flies. There are twenty-five of you. It was a risk to do this more than once, especially since you lost the last couple.”

“I'm trying to make sure we're as good as we can be,” Jeremy says. “I think you'll agree the Trojans have underperformed in the past. This year, I want us all to reach our potential.”

“You think this is the way to do that?”

“I do, yeah.” Otherwise he wouldn't be doing it. “Do you disagree?”

“I don't know better than you what's best for your team. I'm just here to double down on Burt Murrow's offer. You usually spend breaks here, right?”

“Or with friends. Usually I just like to be near a court.”

“Then come spend your winter break in Houston. You'd get paid a decent sum for the two weeks. You'd be back in L.A. in time to practice for championships. You'd put yourself out there to be noticed—by us and, if it's not the right fit, by other teams.”

“Right,” Jeremy says.

“In agreeing to come, you'd give us the right of first refusal—that just means that if we like you, and you decide you do want to go pro, we sign you before anyone else can offer you a contract.”

“What if you don't like me, but a lot of other teams do and you want to prevent them from taking me?”

The reporter chuckles. The scout raises his eyebrow. 

“We're the Houston Lightyears,” he says. “We don't need to resort to tactics like that.”

“You have the paperwork, right?”

“Yeah, if you're ready to sign. Your coach has already looked it over and agreed to the terms, so if you don't have any issues—”

Rheman had a USC lawyer look at it last week. It should be fine.

Jeremy hesitates anyway. “So you're saying that I could know where I'll be for the next five years by the end of January?”

“By the end of the first week,” the scout confirms. “Of course, there's always the possibility that you'd be traded if we decide it's not a good fit, but that would be a mutual decision we'd make, and we haven't gotten anywhere near that yet.”

It's weird that he's just signing this with a pen. He's about to get paid more money than he's ever seen just to play exy for two weeks and possibly sign for the best team in the country at the end of it. It seems like it should be signed in blood.

“Okay,” Jeremy says. He signs. The reporter takes a picture, and then another of him smiling and shaking the scout's hand. 

“I think you made the right choice,” the scout says. 

“Yeah,” Jeremy says, grinning. “I think I did.”

*

It's hot in their room. Never really gets cold in L.A. Definitely gets really hot. Definitely really hot tonight. Jeremy swirls his drink in its sticky blue knock off solo cup and sips, the taste of it sickly sweet in the back of his throat, clinging to his tonsils and staying there even as he swallows. He doesn't know what Jean and Theo put in the stuff.

They're together now, heads huddled close, Theo laughing at something Jean is saying. Theo laughs too loudly, Jeremy thinks—there's no way it should be audible over the music. There's no way. Since when is Jean funny, anyway? 

The music is so loud that Jeremy thinks he can feel the bass line thrumming through his veins, like his heart has taken up a new rhythm. They'd get shut down if they weren't the exy team, if they weren't the USC fucking Trojans, if they hadn't just beaten the shit out of UCLA. They were always going to. No school on the west coast is on their level. Penn, Edgar Allan, and PSU are all across the country, curving into the Atlantic Ocean. Stanford caught them on an off day.

Jeremy throws back the rest of his drink and searches through the makeshift bar—Jean's desk; Jeremy's has been taken over by a laptop and a set of the best speakers anyone on the team owns, some Bose ones someone got as a graduation present, and no drinks are allowed anywhere near it—for something less sweet.

Doesn't find it. Settles on more of the syrupy red punch. It's like they forgot to add soda to the bar mix, it's just grenadine syrup and vodka and that dragonberry rum, Jeremy dizzy and drunk. He was already dizzy before, all adrenaline, overheated from the game and coming off the high of winning. Not enough dinner, probably; too on edge from the game and the meeting to eat properly, half his food is in their fridge. Adding alcohol to the mix—not the best idea. 

“Hey,” he says, loud, over the music, over Theo's too-loud laugh. Starting backliners. They lift together, run drills together, start together. Must know each other pretty well by now. “Hey, Jean.” 

Jean turns toward him, expression fading into something softer. A tug in Jeremy's gut, maybe too much to drink, dizzy.

“You look unwell,” Jean observes. A joke, Jeremy thinks. When did he cross the room? “Fresh air?” 

Los Angeles is a city surrounded by mountains. An empty swimming pool with a sprawling metropolis at its bottom and no drains. Cars, millions of them, few of them cycling clean air. Some atmospheric phenomenon that traps air at the bottom of the pool. A sky tinted more orange than blue. If you didn't know better, you'd think it was a perpetual rain cloud. Even at night it still looks bright, light pollution combining with real pollution to create—ugly. None of the air is fresh.

Jeremy lets himself be taken by the arm anyway. He thinks Jean is going to go downstairs, but instead they head up, to the roof they aren't supposed to go on but atop which most parties end. They'll be followed up here in a few minutes, probably. Jeremy looks back down the stairs. He's their captain. They'd follow him to the ends of the earth. 

“I thought I was supposed to be the dramatic one,” Jean says.

Jeremy might have been talking out loud.

“Yes, you were definitely talking out loud.”

Jeremy grins. He and Jean are alone together a lot, but they're rarely alone together outside of their dorm room. Jeremy likes how Jean looks up here.

“What do you mean, the dramatic one?” Jeremy asks. “Are we a pair?”

Jean's expression looks unsteady, like he's biting the inside of his cheek. “Aren't we?”

“Something like that.”

Jeremy is tall, but Jean is taller. Not that much. Enough that Jeremy would have to tip toe, or Jean would have to bend.

“Bend for what?” Jean says.

Shit. He's talking out loud again. 

“You need some coffee.”

“That's a myth, I thought,” Jeremy says. “Only thing that sobers you up is time.”

“The myth is the myth,” Jean says. “Some espresso and a cigarette, and you will be perfect.”

“That sounds like some French bullshit.” 

Jean raises an eyebrow. “You say that about everything I say.” 

“Everything you say sounds like some French bullshit.”

It's raining, Jeremy realizes dully. He can't even feel the water, just sees a few droplets trickling down the side of Jean's face. At first he thinks it's sweat. It isn't exactly unfamiliar, Jean with water on his face. They share a room. A locker room, a team, a sport. That's why it takes Jeremy so long to realize it. Or maybe that's the alcohol, heating his skin up so much that the water evaporates on contact.

“Your skin would never get that hot,” Jean says. “For water to vaporize when it touches you? You would have to reach a hundred degrees.”

“They don't teach you temperatures at Edgar Allan?” Jeremy reaches forward, unsure what he's reaching for. “We don't use Celsius here.”

“I didn't feel like doing the conversion,” Jean says. He steps obediently toward Jeremy. “It's too complicated. Celsius is simple. At zero, you freeze. At one hundred, you boil.”

“Not me,” Jeremy says. “Water. That's why it doesn't make sense. I'm not water.” 

“No,” Jean says. “You aren't.”

Jeremy finds himself smiling again, mostly by accident. He pokes Jean's chest to get his attention. “Hey. Full halves tonight, and we destroyed them.”

“It's reckless,” Jean says. “It is easier to injure your players if you play them more than you need to.”

“But we're better for it,” Jeremy says. “More stamina. More power. We fucking killed it.” 

“You think too long term.” 

“I'm dedicated to improving my game. And yours, and everyone else's. Isn't that a good thing?”

Jean shuffles closer, produces an umbrella. Probably turns the two of them into lightning rods, but apparently also can't handle getting rained on.

“Maybe,” Jean allows. “I don't think it's natural to think long term like that.”

“Natural for you, or natural for everyone?”

“How should I know what's natural for everyone?”

They're huddled close together now, close enough that Jean's sweater brushes against Jeremy's bare arm. He thinks he has goosebumps, but he can't tell if they're coming from the cold air hitting his warm skin or Jean being so close. Jeremy twists a little to squint up at him: Jean's expression is indecipherable. As always. The only time Jeremy can read him is when they're on the court.

“Hey,” Jeremy says again. Jean opens his mouth like he's going to reply, but then there's a door opening, then a flood of loud music—they've been joined by the rest of the team.

“It's fucking raining!” Katie says, covering her head with her hands like that'll stop it, but no one seems to care. They blast the music out of someone's phone, and someone shoves a new drink into Jeremy's hand.

Jean is tucked up against Jeremy under the umbrella until he isn't anymore, and after that all Jeremy can think is how cold he is, and how damp. Jean is talking to Theo, which Jeremy really can't be annoyed about—he wanted this, he forced Jean to hang out with them until Jean made friends—and Jeremy can't pay a single lick of attention to a thing Katie is telling him.

“Dude, are you like, listening to me even a little bit?” Katie says.

“No,” Jeremy replies. “I'm too drunk.”

Katie laughs like Jeremy is joking. He throws back the rest of his drink and accepts the beer someone hands him, and when Katie winds her fingers through his to dance, lets her.

*

On the other side of Jeremy's room, Jean's chest rises and falls. He spins. Not like a top—more like a pendulum off its axis.

There's a trash can by Jeremy's head. Jean must've put it there. It's lined, and Jeremy reaches for it to retch—once, twice, before he drags himself off the bed and hurtles toward their bathroom.

There's a knock on the door, but Jeremy is too busy puking into the toilet to respond. Jean comes in anyway, tying off the trash bag Jeremy just threw up in and rinsing the bin in the shower next to Jeremy's legs.

“Thanks,” Jeremy says when the contents of his stomach have been thoroughly evacuated. “Sorry I woke you up.”

Jean does the Jeanian version of a shrug: a raised eyebrow and an uncomfortable look to the side. “It is fine. You always—” He doesn't finish the sentence, but Jeremy can guess at the rest of it. It's not like this is the first time they've both been in this bathroom in the middle of the night. It's just the first time Jeremy's the one on the floor.

“I guess I must've had too much to drink,” Jeremy says, pushing himself to his feet and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. 

It makes Jean laugh, low and tired, barely audible. He leans in the doorway while Jeremy rinses his mouth out.

“You didn't brush earlier,” Jean says, indicating Jeremy's very dry toothbrush. 

Jeremy rolls his eyes but obligingly brushes his teeth, glancing up at Jean's reflection in the mirror.

Jean looks tired, Jeremy thinks, and if he remembers correctly Jean was definitely drunk at their party. He's going to be exhausted and hungover at brunch later.

When he notices Jeremy staring, Jean flashes Jeremy one of his backliner smiles, the hungry kind Jeremy has seen aimed at a striker who got too close to scoring. Jeremy spits into the sink and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com)! please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo.


	6. thanksgiving

Jeremy wakes up early on Thanksgiving morning, startling Jean when Jean comes out of the bathroom.

“Morning,” Jeremy says. “Want to get breakfast?”

“I'm going for a swim,” Jean says. “I do not want to make you wait.”

“Oh,” Jeremy says. Jean usually wakes up before him on weekends and Jeremy has morning classes before practice, so Jeremy doesn't really know what Jean's morning routine is. Maybe he always swims. “By yourself?”

Jean looks unimpressed. “You are welcome to join, but I am not asking you to. Swimming is good for—” 

He cuts himself off like he's given something away, though what it is, Jeremy can't begin to discern. He blinks at Jean's figure, an oversized USC sweatshirt over a pair of shorts that look all wrong on him. Jean didn't wear shorts all summer, and here he is, in cut off sweatpants with a faded Edgar Allan logo on them, legs bare from above his knees down to the sneakers he's wearing without any socks. His swimming tights peak out from the bottom of the cut offs, and it's hilarious, the idea that Jean swims in tights like the swim team does.

“I,” Jeremy says. “I don't have swimming tights.”

“You have trunks,” says Jean, who saw Jeremy get dressed for the beach more than once during the summer. Jeremy wonders if Jean would accept the invitations now that he turned down then. “Those pink ones. With the—”

“The yellow stars, right.” Jeremy loves those swim trunks. He's only a little surprised Jean remembers them; Jean seems to take a ruthless kind of pleasure in not-so-subtly mocking Jeremy's sartorial choices. “I have no clue where they are.”

“They can't be your only pair,” Jean says. Another moment's silence, like he's let something slip, except this time it's easier to understand the reaction. “You do not have to come. I was only—if you wanted, I meant. I know you prefer biking.”

“No, I—I haven't been swimming since summer,” Jeremy says. “I'll come. You don't mind waiting for me to get dressed?”

Jean sits down on the edge of his bed and opens his laptop. “Take your time.”

*

Jean in swimming tights is not like Jean in any other kind of athletic gear.

For one, all their Trojans equipment is red and gold, bright, the colors bouncing off Jean's skin. For another, over the protective armor, it's all relatively loose. 

The tights are short and cut low across his hips, black, and in the dim lighting of the tunnel between the locker rooms and the pool, Jeremy could almost mistake them for nothing.

Jeremy looks ridiculous by comparison. In lieu of his pink trunks, he's wearing USC Trojans ones; he isn't sure when his exy team took over his wardrobe, but maybe it was five years ago when they started sending free shit to his high school with his name on it. Yellow, little red gladiators parading across them. They're cute, he told himself when he was tugging them on, but Jean cuts an athletic figure and Jeremy looks a bit “California bro who got lost on his way to the beach volleyball court,” which he supposes isn't entirely wrong.

The pool isn't technically open on Thanksgiving; they're technically breaking and entering, except that Jean assured Jeremy the custodian never locks the door when he knows Jean is around, and their athletic contracts give them full access to all athletic facilities on campus most days of the year. 

Jeremy has never seen this pool without anyone in it before. He's been here for swim practice—an old boyfriend was a swimmer—and to swim himself when rehabbing from injuries or when running in the heat outside seemed impossible. There are always people here or out by the outdoor pool, swimming laps or kicking around at the shallow end irritating everyone actually trying to work out. 

“It's so weird seeing places like this empty,” Jeremy says. “Like an empty airport or something. Or school in the middle of summer.”

Jean hums in vague agreement. He doesn't need a swim cap; he's been keeping his hair short ever since he had it buzzed before moving to USC. He puts one on anyway, Trojan red.

“I love that,” Jeremy says. “You can pretend you aren't all you want, but once it takes over your wardrobe, you're fucked.”

“I don't want the chlorine to dry out my hair.”

“I didn't know you were vain,” Jeremy says, though of course he did know: Jean's wardrobe, though mostly heavy blacks, is expansive, and Jean has a long skincare routine he performs every night.

“You need one,” Jean says, reaching forward to ruffle Jeremy's hair, which has admittedly gotten long—all the Trojans participate in No Shave November, and Jeremy hasn't had a haircut since September anyway. “They sell them at the front desk.”

“Pool's supposed to be closed, though,” Jeremy says, ignoring whatever that pressure is in his stomach. “Will you tell on me if I don't wear one?”

The smile Jean returns is the same one he wears on court. Jeremy doesn't know whether to be pleased or disappointed. He's about to say something about it—probably put his foot in his mouth again—but then Jean says, “Race you,” and sprints past Jeremy toward the deep end.

The signs all say, “No running.” They also say you can't swim without a cap if you have more than an inch of hair. Jeremy dives in after him. 

Jean lets him win. It becomes apparent when Jeremy reaches the opposite side of the pool out of breath and Jean pokes up after him looking as relaxed as if he just got out of a nice bath. 

“You let me win! That was so far from a fair race!”

Jean stares at him. His eyes are a little bloodshot from the water. Jeremy wonders if he ever wears goggles. Chlorine isn't good for your eyes, either. 

Jean has chosen the lane closest to the side of the pool. It means right now, he's in the corner, and Jeremy has the entire rest of the water at his back. It isn't Jeremy's preferred position. 

“I didn't know if you were a sore loser,” Jean says finally.

“Are you kidding? This is the team that wins the Kayleigh Day Spirit Award every year. Did you think that was an accident?”

“Being a good loser in public does not mean you aren't a sore one in private.” 

“Is this you admitting I beat you when we played exy at the start of the season?” Jeremy says. “Or did you let me win then, too?”

“I didn't let you win then,” Jean says. “But I wasn't at my best yet.”

“And you are now?”

Jean shrugs, water rippling around him. “We can have a rematch.”

“I'm out of practice,” Jeremy admits. “Most of my swimming happens in the ocean.”

“I learned how to swim in the ocean,” Jean says. “Well, the sea—in Marseille, the beaches aren't like the ones here. They are beautiful.”

“You've only seen east coast beaches,” Jeremy says, grasping the side of the pool and not missing that Jean treads water like he's just standing on dry land. “You need to let me take you to Crystal Cove. It might not be the Mediterranean Sea, but it's still gorgeous.” 

“Maybe,” Jean says. 

“You never wanted to come in the summer. I thought you were scared of water or something.”

Jean levels another of his long stares at Jeremy. “Have you heard the phrase 'salt in the wound'? Are you aware it refers to a real phenomenon?”

Sometimes Jeremy can't tell if Jean says things like that to test Jeremy's comfort level or because he's just that frank. “I didn't think.”

“Besides,” Jean says, turning in the water and floating on his back, “you were only asking to be polite.”

“No we—” 

But Jean has already started his backstroke, gliding through the water. Jeremy definitely can't beat Jean at a backstroke, so he turns over, pushes off the wall and butterflies alongside him until they reach the other end.

They don't talk for a while again, instead just swimming laps until Jeremy's lungs give out on him and he rests his elbows on the edge of the pool to watch Jean go back and forth. He spends the better part of a lap underwater, his form piscine. 

Jeremy runs his hands through wet hair and pulls it out of his face, knotting it around itself as best he can. Maybe Jean was right. Jeremy's beard is going to be a disaster, too. 

“I told you,” Jean says, popping up next to him. “They might make you look ugly, but they keep your hair out of your face and protect it.”

Jeremy looks at Jean and thinks the swim cap is doing nothing to make him look ugly. “Maybe you're right.” 

“Swim another lap,” Jean suggests. “I will let you win again.”

“Why did you think I'd be a sore loser?” Jeremy says. 

Jean opens his mouth, then closes it again. He looks away from Jeremy, at the fading swim team banners declaring their victories from two years ago, eight, fifteen. 

“You know why.”

“I'm not like him,” Jeremy says. “I'm nothing like him.”

Jean floats a little further away, and Jeremy doesn't miss that Jean has put himself more than an arm's length away from Jeremy. 

“You both want to win more than anything else.”

“I don't want to win more than anything else.” 

“Yes, you do. Maybe he wanted to win on his own, but you still—” Jean stops, clenches his jaw, looks at the banners again. “Do you want to swim another lap before we go shower?”

The subject-change is so abrupt Jeremy gets whiplash. 

“Jean—” But it's Jeremy's fault for bringing it up. Twice. “I—yeah, fine. Two laps, freestyle, that'll give us our final answer. Who is the better swimmer—the six-foot-two merman who spend his childhood swimming in the Mediterranean Sea, or the much smaller desert child who saw his first beach four years ago?”

Jean gives him that backliner smile again. Jeremy thinks it looks more fake every time, all bravado and confidence, the only emotion behind it the desire to triumph. Hypocrite.

They launch themselves away from the side of the pool at the same time. That's about the only thing they do simultaneously. Jean is a few feet ahead of Jeremy when he finally surfaces, and then he turns and passes Jeremy without a second look. Jeremy gets to their designated finishing line so far after Jean that Jean has already climbed out of the pool and tugged his swim cap off. 

Jeremy deliberately shakes out his hair in Jean's direction, spraying him with more pool water. “Jesus, you're fast. You should join the swim team.” 

“I have committed to something else already,” Jean says, not looking at him. “Maybe you're right. We should go to the beach.”

“So you can swim to fucking Japan and disappear on me next time I embarrass myself? I don't think so.” It's not a bad idea, though. It'll be too cold to swim, but they can make a team-bonding activity of it. “Maybe we could have the Trojans holiday party there.”

“I thought all the athletes had a banquet.”

“Yeah, but the exy team has its own afterparty,” Jeremy says. “We usually try to do something outdoors. We could have a bonfire or something. We'd have to have designated drivers, obviously, or we could take the team bus or something if Coach doesn't mind using some of our budget paying Pete overtime to drive us—”

Jean is staring at him.

“I know, I know,” Jeremy says. “I have a one-track mind. You're not the first person who's thought that, believe me—”

“It's not that,” Jean says. “I just—sorry.” He shifts away. “Let's go shower.” 

“Did you want it to be just us?” Jeremy says, following Jean toward the locker room. “I'm sorry—we can both go obviously, it doesn't have to just be that one time, we can go to the beach whenever—”

“It's not that,” Jean says again. “You just surprise me sometimes.”

“In a good way or a bad way?”

Jean huffs. It's almost a laugh. “You don't do anything in a bad way.” 

Which is it? He's like Riko, or he's perfect? Something hot bubbles up around Jeremy's diaphragm, at odds with the chill from his damp skin. He doesn't say anything, just trails Jean into the shower and makes sure he gets all the chlorine out of his hair.

*

It stings anyway. It shouldn't. Jean is traumatized. Jeremy knows that. Riko died less than a year ago, and before that Jean was his personal whipping boy-slash-punching bag.

Still. He's trying so _hard_ , and every time he does something wrong he's scared of scaring Jean off or triggering him or—something.

Jeremy gets dressed for Thanksgiving dinner in silence, shrugging into the only nice sweater he owns (burgundy—just far enough from Trojan red to stick out in his drawer) and trying to figure out if he can get away with wearing sneakers.

“You're sure you don't want to come?” he asks Jean, who is sitting at his desk staring at a math textbook. Jeremy is pretty sure Jean hasn't turned a single page since they got back to their room. Well, it isn't Jeremy's fault the library is closed. “Thanksgiving is a pretty big deal for the Alvarezes.” 

“I don't like turkey,” Jean replies, not looking up.

“They're not overbearing or anything. They just really love their daughter. Mostly they speak Spanish anyway so it's not like you'd even have to talk to anyone if you didn't want to.” 

“I'm French,” Jean says. “Thanksgiving is not a holiday for us.”

“I mean, yeah, dude, I'm Latino,” Jeremy says, rolling his eyes. “If anyone gets not celebrating Thanksgiving it's someone whose ancestors were literally colonized by those European fucks, but it's just an excuse for us to get together and—I mean, come on. Don't you have anything to be grateful for this year?”

He regrets it as soon as he's said it. Jean finally turns a page, taps his pencil on his pad of paper.

“I'm sorry,” Jeremy says to the back of Jean's head. “I didn't—I know it's been a tough year for you. I just keep—like earlier, the Japan thing. I wasn't thinking. I just thought, you know, what's the closest country across the Pacific—I mean, god, shit, I didn't mean—”

“That didn't bother me,” Jean says. He still hasn't turned around. “I'm not an egg, you know.”

“You—what?”

“Everything you say isn't going to break me. I've survived this long.”

“But you don't have to do that here,” Jeremy says. “Everyone gets it. You don't have to—you can just be yourself.” 

Jean's shoulders jerk up and then drop again. “Everyone gets it,” he repeats. “What is it that everyone gets, Knox?”

“Not—like you do, obviously. I mean, not first hand. Obviously. But we know you've been through some shit, and we're not trying to—rush you. Or anything. I know it can come off that way because I'm always trying to get you to socialize, but it's not—I want you to be happy here. And it's my job to make sure the team gets along with everyone, including you. And—”

“So this is about the team.”

“And you. And I just—I want you to know that I don't mean to be—I mean, I know I'm overbearing sometimes, but it's not. I'm not trying to be a dick, is what I mean. I get that I can come off like—I'm forcing you. But you can always say no.”

“I know that.”

“Right,” Jeremy says. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up accidentally. “I'm sorry. Is what I mean. Please tell me if I'm fucking up, because I just talk. A lot. Without always considering—I try to, I mean, but sometimes I don't even know I'm doing it.”

Jean turns to him at last. He looks normal. Jeremy doesn't know why he was expecting anything else. “Knox,” he says. “Relax.”

“Oh,” Jeremy says. “Okay. I just—Alvarez wanted me to get you to come.” 

“To Thanksgiving dinner with a group of people I do not know who will be speaking a language I don't understand?”

“It's better than staying here doing your math homework and drinking protein shakes.”

“Is it?”

“They're really nice,” Jeremy says. “And Spanish is a super valuable language right now, might as well learn it while you can.” Something occurs to him suddenly. “Have you ever done like, a traditional Thanksgiving?”

Jean's jaw works. “I—yes. Sort of.” 

“The Alvarezes do it better. Just a ton of people, great food—none of that bland, unseasoned potato bullshit, I mean it. It's worth the time.”

“Is this one of your mandatory team-building exercises?”

“No. I just don't want you to feel like you have to be alone on a holiday. I did Thanksgiving solo in a dorm room once, and it kind of sucked, so—”

“No, thank you,” Jean says. He turns back to his math. “I'll see you tonight.”

Jeremy sighs and looks in the mirror, running a brush through his hair so it won't look unkempt. It does look drier. Jean was definitely right about the swim cap. 

“Okay,” Jeremy says. “I'll bring you back a plate. You really don't like turkey?”

“No.” 

“Okay. I—I'll see you tonight.” 

Jean nods. Jeremy grabs his wallet, phone, flowers, and wine, and leaves.

*

Jeremy loves Thanksgiving at the Alvarezes. His family was never huge—his dad's side of the family still lives in Mexico, and his mom only had her mom, so holidays at Jeremy's house were pretty small even before the accident.

Not that he didn't enjoy Thanksgivings, Christmases, and Easters with his grandmother. He did. He loved the food she made, appreciated her mini-traditions for their mini-familia, even liked going to church with her. 

His freshman year, he spent every holiday on campus alone. It sucked. He isn't particularly religious these days, but on Christmas Eve he found himself wishing he'd gone to church, and then when he went on Ash Wednesday felt ridiculous. The older Trojans knew about his parents—everyone knows, it's been the first thing on the Wikipedia page since his mediocre high school team won nationals with him playing the entire game his junior year—but probably didn't know his grandmother died weeks before his first semester started. Probably because he didn't share it. He was eighteen. It's not their fault he wasn't more forthcoming. It was bad enough not having parents—not having anyone at all would've made him feel like even more of a child among the rest of them. 

The next year, Katie invited him to her Kenyan Thanksgiving dinner. Then he spent Christmas at Laila's celebrating her southern American mom's traditions—a tree, Christmas songs playing on the radio, sweet potato pie—and her Somali dad's Christmas traditions, which mainly involved talking about how Jesus was brown and Middle Eastern. 

When Alvarez started at USC, she basically adopted Jeremy into her family. The Alvarezes' holidays are everything he wished for as a child—twenty-five people packed into her parents' house, loud Mexican pop, incredible food. The other Alvarezes don't seem to know Jeremy isn't one of them—they just assume he's someone's son or boyfriend. It's nice. 

“In fact, I thought you were Sara's boyfriend the first year,” one of her aunts tells Jeremy as he helps set the table. “That was before her parents told us she was a lesbian, of course—” 

“—are we talking about Sara's Muslim girlfriend? Where is she?” another aunt asks, refilling Jeremy's wine glass. “She drove us all home last year, remember?”

“Yeah, we woke up and we were still drunk,” the first aunt says, laughing. “What a lovely girl. Do you know where she is, Jeremy?”

“Not a clue,” Jeremy replies. “You're better off asking Alvarez.”

“Is she still calling herself that? I have no idea why she doesn't like her first name—she is named after my mother, you know. Don't you think it's a beautiful name? Sarita, come here, Jeremy loves your name.”

“It's a shame you don't like it,” Jeremy says when Alvarez gets there with an armful of plates. “Such a beautiful name.”

Alvarez glares at him. “I honestly hate you. Come help me get all the glasses out here before Tía Juanita starts showing you baby pictures.” 

“That does absolutely nothing to dissuade me from staying here.”

Alvarez grabs his wrist and drags him to the kitchen. “Glad you're having fun, Knox.”

“Why _don't_ you like Sara? I don't think I ever asked you that before.”

“Oh, I don't know—it just always felt like someone else.” Alvarez hands Jeremy a tray, then proceeds to stack glasses atop it. “When I was in the closet, it felt like a lie, and then I grew into the Alvarez name so much that Sara just didn't fit anymore. And then people kept saying it wrong—I mean, everyone at my high school was Latino, so they could say it right, but teachers were like _Saaaah-raaaah_ , and I was like, uh, please stop. I'm not Sah-rah, you know? I'm Sah-rah even less than I am Sara.” 

“I mean, no one says my name the way my family said it. Except your family, I guess.”

Alvarez starts adding wine bottles to Jeremy's tray, then a bucket of ice. “No one's going to see 'Jeremy' and think it's supposed to start with a Y sound. It's your dad's fault for being called 'Knox,' like if you were an Alvarez maybe people would figure it out.” 

“Who is going to drink wine with ice? This is gross.”

“You don't know. Some people might want it to be cold. Don't judge. You want to come out for a quick smoke?”

“We can't smoke during the season. If we get tested—”

Alvarez rolls her eyes. “We won't be smoking, Captain, the other cousins will. We'll just be getting some fresh air before dinner.”

“Oh,” Jeremy says. “Good. I really don't need to be suspended for championships.”

“We could win 'em without you.”

“Oh, okay, good point, you have a lighter?”

Alvarez laughs. “Stop it. Can you imagine? Rheman would probably show up and thoractomize both of us before we could do it.”

“Thoractomize? What the fuck is that?”

“Lung removal surgery. Possibly not the best way to phrase that. You can take those to the table.”

Jeremy carries the glasses out and sets them down, gets drawn into a conversation about some sport he doesn't follow with a couple of Alvarez's uncles (“What do you think about our group for the World Cup? Germany, that's a big one, but South Korea and Sweden—that's not so bad. We could go to the round of sixteen, easy—”), and follows Alvarez out onto the back porch where some of her cousins are surreptitiously smoking.

“Juanita thinks you're a nicotine addict, dude,” Alvarez tells one of her cousins. “You need to be better at hiding.”

“I'm vaping now,” he says. “You want some?”

“Can't, NCAA random testing, you know.” 

“Even weed? It's legal in California.”

“It's not legal everywhere.” Alvarez refills Jeremy's wine glass and her own. “Yeremy rode his bike all the way out here.”

“Jesus, really? From campus?” The cousin looks at Jeremy's legs. “You must be jacked. What's your squat?”

Jeremy sips the wine. It's nice. Cabernet. He tries not to think of Laila's comparison. “Max or reps?” He's starting to feel a little lightheaded.

Alvarez's cousin laughs. “Shit, you're serious. Uh—I don't want to be too embarrassed. Reps.”

“Two-twenty-five.”

The cousin whistles. Alvarez rolls her eyes. 

“Honestly, men. I always forget everything between you guys is a dick-measuring contest.”

“Hey, I'm just impressed,” the cousin says. “What about you, Sarita? What's your squat?”

“Two-fifty.” She pushes past him to talk to another cousin, and the first cousin gapes at Jeremy.

“We work out a lot,” Jeremy says. “Our diets are developed to aid our strength-training. I have to sprint a lot, squats help you get faster, so I squat a lot.”

“And bike a lot. Your quads must be insane.”

Distantly, Jeremy wonders if he's getting hit on. “My job is to be super fit, so I am.”

“I'm impressed, dude. What's your circuit look like?”

“It changes pretty often. We have a couple of trainers who work with us and our coach to figure out what we need to change, and then we get in the gym and do it.”

“I'd kill for something like that.” The cousin flexes, but he's in a sweater, so it doesn't make much difference. He's cute, Jeremy thinks, finishing his third glass of wine. Or, wait, maybe it's his fourth. “This is all totally solo.” 

“You're too covered up for me to see it,” Jeremy says. 

The cousin pulls the sweater off. He's wearing a t-shirt underneath, but at least it makes it easier to see his bicep this time. Jeremy can appreciate that. 

But then Alvarez is at his elbow, dragging him back inside. “It's time to eat, come on, no more of this bullshit.”

“What bullshit?” Jeremy asks innocently. 

“I know what you're doing. Family's off limits. Don't you want to come back for Christmas?”

Jeremy laughs. “I wasn't doing anything. He wanted to show off.”

“Jesus, I thought I was the gay cousin. I can't believe I have to rethink my identity again.”

“You're the jock cousin. Isn't that obvious?”

Alvarez stills. “Fuck. I am the jock cousin. That's so boring.”

“So where's the GF?” Jeremy asks, again very innocently.

Alvarez groans. “I hate when you initialize stuff. Just say girlfriend. It's the same amount of syllables.”

“Is that your answer?”

“Yup. Come on, we're sitting at the kids table and I want to steal more wine before anyone realizes how drunk I am.”

She and Jeremy snag a bottle each. The cousin from the back porch is already sitting when Jeremy gets to the table, and Jeremy deliberately takes a spot a few seats away, next to Alvarez's little sister.

“Hi Jeremy!” she says cheerfully when she sees him. “I saw you play against UCLA!” 

Jeremy feels a little guilty for not saying hi to Alvarez's family—he was stuck talking to the Lightyears scout until they were gone. “What did you think?”

“You were really good! I started playing exy this year because of you.”

“Not because of your sister?”

Sofía makes a face. “No. She's mean.”

“She's really good, though,” Jeremy says. “What position do you play?”

“Goalie!”

“They made her goalie 'cause she can't run,” Alvarez says on Jeremy's other side. “Asthma.”

“I can run!” Sofía says. “Don't say I can't run, because I can run, I just have to have my inhaler. That's what Coach says.”

Alvarez refills her wine glass. “Let's go make our plates. Sofía, do you want me to make you one?”

“I want Jeremy to make me one.”

“Okay,” Jeremy says. “Do you like everything?”

“I love everything!”

Jeremy follows Alvarez back to the dining room and grabs two plates to fill.

“I can do that, you can just hand it to her,” Alvarez says.

“I don't mind.”

“She doesn't like sweet potatoes—I know she says she likes everything, but she'll only eat the marshmallows, so I usually just give her some of my topping. She loves stuffing, though, so just go all out on that, and cornbread, too. Just, like, carb her up.”

“Carb her up,” Jeremy says. “Got it.”

*

Jeremy is drunk.

They're sitting outside for dessert and coffee. Apparently his Alvarez has the biggest house with the most space and the nicest backyard, so the Alvarezes all crash here every year, and now Jeremy is apparently one of them, so he's crashing here too.

It takes him forever to chew his bite of pie. Like, an inordinate amount of time. He can't tell if time has slowed down because of how much wine he's had—one bottle? Two?—but his jaw doesn't seem to be working right. 

Someone is talking at his shoulder. It's the Alvarez cousin, what was his name, Juanita's son. Chris, maybe. Something like that. He's talking about working out. Jeremy isn't interested in talking about this right now. He swallows the pie and takes another bite.

It's apple. He likes an apple pie. His grandmother always made cherry pies for Thanksgiving, the one time a year they ever had cherries. His mother liked them, apparently. 

Shit. He's not supposed to be sad. He's at Thanksgiving at the Alvarezes. He's such a melancholy drunk. How annoying. 

“—so yeah, I'm thinking of doing keto after the holidays for my cut,” the cousin is saying. “You guys ever do that? Low carb?”

Jeremy swallows the pie. “I'd rather die.”

Chris-maybe laughs. “Everyone always says that, but it's not that hard. I tried it last year, and you have a lot of energy. Less sugar means more nutrients, you know? Except last year I just ate a lot of cheese. It's high fat, medium protein, but I supplemented with powder and all that, so I think I was high protein too, ha ha. You want more wine?”

“I'm good, thank you.” Jeremy doesn't know how this conversation went from flirting to nutritional advice. “Have you tried just eating less to cut?”

“Yeah, but I lift so much, you know, I get hungry.”

“I'm going to get some coffee,” Jeremy says. He doesn't know how he's going to bike back to campus tonight. He'll probably get hit by a truck or something. That's almost poetic—he can reconnect with his dead family. “You want anything?”

“Yeah, I'll have a coffee.” 

Jeremy makes two mugfuls and carries them back to their chairs, trying not to slosh it on the ground. All the younger kids have gone to sleep, so everyone left out here is around his age or older. The real adults are sitting around talking about something serious. A couple of cousins are playing touch football. How they're doing that when Jeremy feels like if he turns his head too sharply he'll throw up, Jeremy doesn't know.

“That's good,” maybe-Chris says. “Thanks, man. You crashing here tonight?”

“He is,” Alvarez says, popping up at Jeremy's side again. “I'm going to kidnap him from you, actually.”

“Nothing's happening,” Jeremy says when he's been dragged to the side of the house. “We were just talking about low carb diets.”

“Gross. Why?”

“He's on a bulk right now and he wants to start a cut after the holidays.”

“Oh.” Alvarez frowns at him. “Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah.” Jeremy takes a sip of the coffee. He isn't that drunk, really. Just tired. “It's just been a long day.”

“I hate when you get mopey,” Alvarez says. “It's the most depressing thing ever. You know we all love having you here.”

“I love being here,” Jeremy says. “I do. Sorry if I'm being weird.”

“I know holidays are hard. I thought you were going to bring the musketeer, actually.”

Jeremy winces. “Don't remind me. We had the most weird conversation when I asked him to come.”

“Really? What about?”

“Just, like, how I'm an awkward mess all the time.”

“Stop it. Jean loves you.”

“He also doesn't like turkey,” Jeremy says. “Or speak Spanish. So he wasn't interested. And we like, kind of had an argument? So I didn't even offer to stay with him or anything. Am I an asshole? Like, I asked him to come, he just wasn't interested, and I feel like he just wanted me to not be in his space anymore. But it's _our_ space, right, we share a room, it's not like I'm trying to always be around. Sometimes _I'd_ like the room to myself too, you know?”

“I love this,” Alvarez says. “Just channeling all negative emotion toward poor Jean Moreau when he's not even here to defend himself. Wanna talk more shit?”

“I want _you_ to talk some shit. Where's Laila?”

“Let's talk about this when we're both sober.”

“Is she at home?”

“Yeah,” Alvarez says. “Bought a last minute flight across the country. That's how little she wanted to be here.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So you were yelling at me for being mopey, but you're really the mopey one.”

Alvarez glares at him. “Does that make you happy?”

“Like, a little.” 

“I think it's time for bed,” Alvarez says. “You want to stay in my room? You can sleep in my bed instead of, like, on the floor in between four of my uncles.”

“How would I be in between four people? I mean, also yes, please, but your language is very imprecise.”

Alvarez laughs. “Let's get you some shorts. I know you're dying to not be wearing pants.”

“I just feel like the whole point of California is for pants not to be necessary. Otherwise we never would've come here, like, as a nation.”

“I'm pretty sure Americans came out here for gold and pants-length preferences were unrelated. Is your bike in the front or back?”

“Back.”

“Okay, good.” 

Alvarez leads Jeremy to her room and disappears somewhere else to get him a change of clothes. It's probably the first time all day he's had to be alone with his thoughts. 

He takes out his phone. There are a few texts from the Trojans, some pictures of food in the groupchat, and plenty of social media notifications. Nothing from Jean.

Jeremy texts him: _not going to be back tonight. see you en la mañana. that means in the morning._

He waits, but Jean doesn't respond until Jeremy has brushed his teeth with his finger, changed into a t-shirt and shorts that are too big for him, and settled in bed next to Alvarez.

_ok_

Jeremy turns his phone off and goes to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based the Alvarez Thanksgiving around my own family's big ass Thanksgivings. Honestly I know it's a holiday based on a white supremacist, American exceptionalist lie, but I do love stuffing.
> 
> Also, I've gotten to the end of stuff I'd mostly already written before starting to post this fic. We're probs looking at every two weeks or so depending on my writing speed, mental health, and social life.
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com). Please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	7. revelation

On Sunday, Jeremy runs into Alvarez at breakfast completely by accident. It's early, and most people aren't back yet. He has a backpack full of books he's supposed to have read over this break, so he wants to go to the library to work—his dorm room has been weirdly distracting of late, and he and Jean are still kind of avoiding each other. 

“I don't think I've ever seen you at the library,” Alvarez says, looking at his backpack like it's the first time she's ever seen one. “Like, I didn't even know you did homework. I thought you got by on good looks and exy talent alone.”

“Oh, I do,” Jeremy replies, flashing her a smile. “But sometimes you just have to write your last ever psych paper.”

“Unless you break a leg and never play exy again and get a masters in psych and become, like, a therapist or something. You'd make a good therapist.”

“Isn't there that stereotype about people who are just complete messes making good therapists?”

“Well, yeah, exactly,” Alvarez says, leading Jeremy to the omelet station. Jeremy doesn't think he's ever been here early enough for there not to be a line. “You'd be like, 'yeah I can relate,' to like every person's story of just—crippling anxiety.”

Jeremy snorts. “Extremely rude. And I _do_ work, I just mostly do it in my room.”

“So why aren't you doing that today?” Alvarez fills her plastic bowl with mushrooms and red peppers. Jeremy just adds cheese to his. “Too much proximity to the musketeer the last few days?”

“Yeah, I don't know,” Jeremy says, handing his bowl to the omelet station attendant and smiling at him. “I don't know. It's just weird.”

“Really? I was kind of joking. You guys are still in a thing?”

“No, it's—I thought we were getting close, but every time it feels like we're about to really bond or something, he kind of just steps back. I feel like he used to be a little more open, like there's a bunch of times where he just cuts himself off in the middle of a sentence.”

“He used to be _more_ open? Are you kidding?” Alvarez says. “The other day he held the door for me on our way out of the building. That's about as open as he's ever been.”

Jeremy, who has never thought of Jean as anything less than polite, says, “What?”

“Yeah, and Katie said he actually joined in the conversation at breakfast with Theo last week. Not just with Theo, with Katie too.”

“What do you mean, not just with Theo?”

Alvarez turns away from choosing between a bagel and whole wheat bread to stare at him. “Are you serious?”

Baffled, Jeremy stares back. “Serious about what?”

“Jean literally only hangs out with you and Theo,” Alvarez says. “I think I've talked to him, like, twice off the court.”

“What?”

“Yeah, that's why I wanted him to come over for Thanksgiving. I figure if you like him so much, there must be something there, right? But surprise surprise, he wasn't interested.”

“I thought he was adjusting well!” 

“I mean, maybe he is,” Alvarez says, shrugging. “I just figured he's, like, an extreme introvert or whatever. Or maybe he just hates the rest of us, I don't know—I mean, I think we probably do come off as super insular to outsiders, but he's not an outsider, so—” She pushes her bagel into the toaster and then turns back toward the omelet station, where their omelets are waiting for them. “I just think it took him a while to adjust to California.”

Jeremy thinks back on all their interactions over the last few months, reeling—Jean always hanging around Theo, and if not with Theo then definitely with Jeremy; Jean suggesting eating lunch with Theo when Jeremy told him to talk to the team more; Jean by himself or with Theo on bus rides; Jean always putting his headphones on and sleeping through even rowdy flights; Jean leading Jeremy out to the roof when the party got to be too much, or else when Theo got distracted.

“So he's only friends with us?” 

“I mean, he's friend _ly_ with the rest of us,” Alvarez says. “I guess. In his way. I mean, he doesn't actively try to injure us, and he shouts at the rest of the defense during games, so—”

“But he's not super close with Rogelio or the other backliners?”

“I think the only thing he's ever said to Rogelio outside of practice has been 'that's mine' when Ro tested his racquet.”

“Ro wouldn't like it,” Jeremy says absently, picking out silverware for himself and Alvarez while she fills her water bottle. “It's too heavy, and Jean's a couple inches taller than he is.”

“Why _do_ all the Ravens use such heavy racquets?” Alvarez says. She grabs a drink tray for their coffee. “I mean, mine is on the heavier side, but Jean's could seriously injure someone—oh hey, maybe that's why, right? Defending themselves from that psycho they called a captain?”

That psycho they called a captain. Jeremy would run a hand through his hair if both his hands weren't carrying food. 

On second thought, Jean never would've asked him to go to the pool with him only a few weeks ago. Maybe he's not holding back; maybe he's giving more than before, and maybe some of it even surprises Jean. 

Those first few weeks with Jean in L.A., when he was staying in Rheman's guest room with frequent visits from their team medic and team psych, were extremely touch and go. Jeremy thought maybe he made a mistake suggesting Rheman facilitate the transfer. Laila would drive him to Rheman's apartment after practice, and Jeremy would try to talk to Jean, and he'd only get glared at. It reminded Jeremy of one of the feral desert cats his grandmother sometimes fed, more apt to bite or scratch a hand than accept a treat from it. Even after he'd healed physically, even after Rheman said Jean went to PT every day and had started working low impact exercise into his day (swimming, Jeremy thinks, the realization barely making a dent in the shocked cloud of his head), Jean was scared of them. Scared of _him_. Because Jeremy is the captain, and Jean has only known one other captain. 

He remembers Jean's first practice, Jean partnering with Theo to stretch because Theo is better than Rogelio and Jeremy thought—hoped—that Theo and Jean would make a good pair (before that, Kevin Day's arms spread wide, that tattoo on his face looking more like an insult than ever: _I have a backliner for you_.

Jeremy, who has known Kevin since they played each other in high school nationals and was at that point still reeling from the understanding that it was Riko who almost ended Kevin's career and not an accident, didn't need much convincing. The Trojans aren't the Foxes—they aren't a halfway house or a charity for exy players who are even more fucked up than average—but even they couldn't turn down a star backliner with a backstory. 

Kevin smiled at him after, small and real. A few weeks later, the Foxes beat the Ravens, too, and Riko almost cracked Neil Josten's skull with a racquet. Instead, he shot himself in the head. Supposedly. Jeremy's learned not to believe much of the Ravens' official stories).

It's a shock that Jean has any friends on the team at all. Considering everything.

“Are you okay?” Alvarez asks once they're seated. The dining hall is almost empty, but she picked a private-ish booth anyway. “It's not, like, that crazy, right? Like, it's not like he's some huge extrovert.”

“But I thought—I mean, I know I've seen him hanging out with Ro or—maybe Katie or Laila.”

“Never without Theo, though. It's weird, like—I don't know, maybe he's just one of those people who only has a couple of close friends, right?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy says. “Maybe.” He digs his fork into his omelet. “Wait, so, completely unrelated, non-subtle change of topic.”

“What?”

“What's going on with you and LDA?”

Alvarez winces. “Nothing serious.”

“That's, like, basically meaningless.” 

“I know, I just—I don't even know where to, like, even start.”

“You said it's nothing serious.”

“I mean, like, no one cheated on anyone or anything. It's just stupid lesbian drama, honestly, I can't believe we're fighting about it.”

Jeremy drinks some of his coffee, appreciates the bitterness of it, and dumps in a few sugar packets. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Yeah. No, I am, I'm just—trying to figure it out myself.” Alvarez spins her knife on the table. “It's so stupid. It's about exy.”

“Did she shit talk your form? You're really good, Alvarez, don't let anyone tell you you're not.”

Alvarez doesn't laugh at Jeremy's obvious joke. “We were talking about our future—like long-term, after graduation—and she kept using 'we,' like 'we'll have a dog,' and 'we'll live in a big city,' and I just couldn't—I mean, she graduates the year before me, right? She'll be a rookie when I'm being scouted. Why does she think we'd end up in the same place? How does she know I even want to like—like, what if she goes to Houston or Miami or something? I wouldn't go to a team that doesn't prioritize defensive dealers, you know?”

“Oh.”

“I just feel like—I mean, I love her, and I want us to always—you know, be together or whatever. I just feel like it's naive to, like—I mean, she doesn't even graduate for another year. She doesn't even know where she'll be. She's really good, but it's not like every single team is going to be in the market for a goalie, especially when the Ravens and the Foxes have starting goalies graduating the year after. It's not like with you—she probably won't get to pick from anywhere she wants.”

“I don't get to pick anything,” Jeremy says. “If the Lightyears like me, I'm there for the next five years.”

“What? Is that really in your contract?”

“Yeah. They have the right of first refusal for all players who go to their training camp.”

“Jesus,” Alvarez says. “So you don't even get to know the other options?”

“If they like me, there are no other options.”

“You just signed your future over like that?”

“I'm a striker,” Jeremy says. “Every team needs to score. If it doesn't work out, they'll trade me somewhere.”

“Yeah, but not to a direct rival,” Alvarez says. “You think if they don't like you at Houston, you'll end up in Miami? Or New York?”

“I'm not thinking that far ahead,” Jeremy says. “Maybe that's your issue. You're overthinking this whole thing. Laila just wants you to, like, admit that you might end up together long term, and if you do, you'll have serious choices to make about where you'll physically be.” 

“I get that,” Alvarez says. “I'm just worried that if I go to like, Seattle or Chicago, both of which are more defensive teams, she'll be pissed that I didn't choose to be close to her, but I don't want to like, ride the bench in Miami just so I can walk our shared puppy every day. It's like Shereen always says—if you're not versatile, you're fucked.”

“You're good at what you do,” Jeremy says. “You'll go pro. I just think—I mean, you're two years away from even having to make this decision. Why are you fighting about it now?”

“Better now, when we're a year in, than two years from now, when we're like, picking out wedding venues.” Alvarez pokes at her omelet with her fork and pulls out a mushroom, which she proceeds to stab repeatedly with the fork. “I don't know. I'm tired. Like, midterms are barely over and finals are in two weeks? Not to mention I just had to hang out with my family for four days?”

“Yeah, I was going to ask why you're back so early.”

“I told them we had practice this morning,” Alvarez says. “I mean, I love them, but not when it's all twenty of them under the same roof all week.” She winces again. “I didn't mean to sound ungrateful.”

“It's fine,” Jeremy says. “I get it. I'm not even related to them, but I'm pretty sure I get the cousin treatment from your aunt every year.”

“I don't think she even knows you're not related,” Alvarez says. “She sees anyone with like, your complexion and hair color, and she's like, well, must be an Alvarez! Even if it's not one of our Alvarezes. We're all family to her.”

“That's kind of sweet.”

“Yeah,” Alvarez says, smiling a little. “It kind of is.”

*

“We have two more games of the regular season,” Rheman is saying. His voice echoes through the court. Everyone was supposed to keep up weights and cardio over Thanksgiving, but none of them have played exy since Tuesday. “We've already qualified for championships next semester, but our rank and the teams we play will be determined by how well we do for the next two weeks. I want you all on your toes.”

“We're going to do full halves again at home to Stanford,” Jeremy says. “If it works, we try a full game at ASU. We have subs on the bench in case it all goes to shit again, but we have enough of a cushion that even if we lose either game, we'll be okay for championships.”

“That said, it's important you all stay healthy,” Rheman adds. “If you feel so much as a niggle, you're going to Bobbie. These next few games aren't as important as the ones we'll have in March. If you need a week off, you take your week off.”

He goes through some other housekeeping things—the USC Athletics banquet, the team-building activity Jeremy has planned for afterward (“Joshua Tree? You are such a nerd, Knox”), individual winter break workout plans—and then gives the floor to Laila and Jeremy to lead warmups. 

“Knox,” Jean says, distracting Jeremy from his stretch. 

“The defense is warming up over there,” Jeremy says, indicating where Laila is setting up cones. “You need something?”

“I know you aren't like him.”

Jeremy freezes. This isn't what he wanted. He's supposed to be helping Jean adjust, not making his life harder. He's not supposed to be making Jean apologize for his trauma. It's not like Jeremy's never done this before. He knows better.

“I know,” Jeremy says. A ball rolls past him, and Jeremy reflexively sticks out a foot to stop it, bounces it back across the court. “Hey! No balls yet!”

“Let me finish. Sometimes you remind me of him. It is true—you are obsessed with being the best. Sometimes at the expense of winning, maybe. Like against Palmetto and Stanford. But it is not—at the expense of everything.”

“Oh,” Jeremy says. That's probably not how he would put it. “I want the best for the Trojans. All of us. Not just me.”

“I know. But the drive is the same. I am sorry if I—sometimes it's hard for me to keep it straight. The ways you are different.”

Jeremy should say it's fine. He should accept the apology, apologize for needing it, and get back to work.

Jeremy says, “How am I different?”

“You like to argue, not fight.”

Jeremy remembers how badly he wanted Rogelio to hit him in the locker room after their first game of the season. It would've been perfect. Jeremy would never hit a Trojan, but he'd definitely hit one back. “I don't know what that means.”

Jean is silent for a second. Jeremy turns to the rest of his attackers, who are all pretending that they're not trying to eavesdrop.

“Push-ups!” Jeremy shouts, dropping to the floor. Jean drops down next to him. 

“You would not destroy someone if they were better than you. You would try to learn how they were better and apply those concepts yourself.”

“You mean I wouldn't smash someone's hand if someone suggested they might be a better player than me?” Jeremy says. “You already knew I was like that. We all played a full game against the Foxes last spring knowing we'd lose.”

“But you are like that off the court, too. I did not know that.”

Jeremy twists a little to look at him. Jean's push-ups are relentless. He stops after ten for a rest, then gets back to it. 

“Okay,” Jeremy says. “Thank you. I'm sorry I—I know I shouldn't have gotten annoyed. Sometimes it's hard for me to—control how I feel. About—this. I know I fuck up a lot. And—everyone knows everything about me, too.”

“Not everything.”

“They know as much about me as they know about you.”

“Maybe,” Jean says. Then: “It was not a nice thing to say. I knew you wouldn't like it.”

But he said it anyway. Which, Jeremy thinks, sitting up and calling for the offense to switch to crunches, is a comfort in itself.

*

Kevin didn't answer when Jeremy called him right after breakfast, but he calls back later that night. It's a stroke of luck that Jean is taking one of his customary long showers—it must be well past midnight on the east coast.

“Knox,” Kevin says, cheerfully enough. There are voices in the background wherever Kevin is. Jeremy can't make out whose they are or what they're saying, but it means Kevin isn't somewhere alone, at least, which must be a good thing. “How are you?”

“I'm good,” Jeremy says. He doesn't know how he wants to word this, so he stalls. “Where are you right now?”

“Andrew's car,” Kevin says. “We are on our way back from practice.”

Jeremy glances at the watch on his nightstand. “At one-thirty in the morning?”

“Can't tell you all my secrets, Knox,” Kevin replies. “We do not need you guys beating us this time around.”

Jeremy laughs. “I don't know if extra practices can save you this time, Day. We've been playing full halves.”

There's the slightest intake of breath on the other end, and then Kevin lets out a rush of something like laughter. “I know. I saw you lose when you tried it.”

“And presumably you also saw us win against UCLA.”

“That is not real opposition. I want to see you do that against Penn.”

Jeremy hums. “Not til championships. We'll do it against you, too.”

“Assuming we make championships.” This time, the voice in background is definitely talking to Kevin—Jeremy hears a distinct “Oh, shut the fuck—” before Kevin cuts whoever it is off.

“How is everything?” Kevin says, tone changing slightly. Jeremy knows he isn't asking about the Trojans' exy-playing. It's an opening Jeremy wasn't expecting.

“I don't know,” Jeremy says. “I think it's going well. Do you two talk at all?”

“No,” Kevin replies. The moment of silence that follows is awkward. “Sometimes he texts Thea.” 

“They were partners, right? When Jean first started at the Ravens?”

Kevin's response is slow: “Yes. But—partnerships for the Ravens are not—it is not like you with Mwangi or another striker. Ravens partners do everything together.”

Jeremy bites the inside of his lip. “So how close are they? Is it like a normal friend thing but just more intense?”

“No,” Kevin says. He pauses. There's the sound of a car door opening and closing, and still Kevin's answer doesn't come. Jeremy doesn't know what he's remembering, but he's not really sure he wants to: everything he discovers about the Ravens makes him hate a dead man more. “Not really. It is more like—another half of your body, except you can't control it. You know when your leg falls asleep? It's like having an entire body that's asleep, and knowing that whatever happens to it has consequences for you.”

“So it's like—a real bond.” Jeremy stares at his reflection in his blank laptop screen. “I don't know, I mean, he's not like that with me. Maybe he's over it.” 

“It wouldn't be with you,” Kevin says. “You're the captain, and you do not play the same position. It would be with the backliner he starts with most often. Nowak.”

“Theo?” Jeremy says. “I mean, they're close, but it's not like that. And it doesn't have to be bad, right? Like—it could just be looking out for each other on the court. They're just friends.”

“We are—Ravens are taught that their partner is an extension of themselves at the expense of everyone else. If your partner fucks up, you pay the cost. There are no friends in the Nest.”

“Jean's not in the Nest anymore,” Jeremy says. “And neither are you.”

“I know that.” Kevin sighs. Jeremy thinks it's the only weakness he's ever seen from Kevin the whole time they've known each other. He remembers thinking of Riko and Kevin like gods ruling exy from marble thrones. He remembers Riko hugging Kevin on that talk show, the way Kevin's warm smile died right there on his face. Jeremy has probably watched the video a thousand times since Riko died. Neil Josten calling Riko second-best. Kevin's death grip on Josten's arm. “Even now, I—even in Palmetto, I don't really have friends.”

“What about Josten?”

“Neil is—it's not the same thing.”

“Do you think I should be worried about Jean?” Jeremy asks. It's the real reason he called, after all. “Will it hurt the team? Or him? The bonding thing?”

“I don't know,” Kevin says. “Does he get along with everyone?”

“Kind of. I thought he did, but one of my dealers says he's kind of standoffish. Maybe he just needs time.”

“Or therapy,” Kevin suggests. It almost has the cadence of a joke. Jeremy wonders if Kevin goes to therapy, and if it's working. Jeremy thinks it's working for Jean. It worked for him. “Jeremy, if your teammates do not hate him, he is doing better than I am.”

“Okay,” Jeremy says. “I—if you think so.”

“He is playing well.”

“That's not the only thing that matters.”

“Yes, it is,” Kevin says, a tiny bit petulant. Jeremy thinks of him using his injured hand against the Ravens, the way he dropped his racquet like it had burned him after scoring in the last seconds of the game. Kevin Day would stick a landing with a broken ankle, probably. Jeremy would, too, but he'd go to the hospital afterward. Kevin would wait to see his score.

“Your teammates don't hate you,” Jeremy says. 

“You do not know my teammates,” Kevin says. “And you have never played with me before.” A brief pause, and then: “Speaking of which. I heard you will be Houston this winter.”

“Yeah. We'll see how it goes. You think you'll be there next year?”

“They would not want to take a chance on me,” Kevin says, “right-handed.”

“What? You were the highest-scoring striker last year.”

“And I will be again this year, unless you manage to outscore your own record this spring.”

“Josten's gaining on you,” Jeremy says. “Seriously, I always thought you'd be a Lightyear.”

“I think their team ethos is not for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have been on a team that always won,” Kevin says. “The Lightyears can buy the best players in the league every season. I prefer being on a team that takes work.”

“Do you know who that is yet?”

“If I could have my way, it would be Boston,” Kevin says. “They are about to bought by someone who has rehabbed NFL and EPL teams before. I would be interested in that project.”

“Boston? They didn't even make playoffs last year.”

“It isn't my choice, anyway,” Kevin says. “I will probably go to the highest bidder.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Kevin says. “I have to go.”

“Okay,” Jeremy says. “Thanks for your help. Good luck this week.”

Kevin hums into the phone and hangs up.

*

Jeremy doesn't have the time to think about Jean's social life right now. He's too busy doing what Jean said he does—trying to improve.

When the Stanford Cardinal played the USC Trojans in September, they were a mess. Mid-conditioning, trying to get their shit together, in-team fighting. The Trojans hadn't won a game since before the semifinals. Their lineup had one key change from the spring. Their tactics were all wrong.

So Stanford doesn't see it coming. They're six goals down after the first half. The Trojans have barely slowed down. An all-new team comes on in the second half, concedes a single goal, scores two more. 

Full time: eight-one.

“The experiment's been working out well for us,” Jeremy says, breathlessly, into a group of mics. “We wanted to come back out against Stanford and show 'em what we can do when we're at our best. It wasn't a huge risk since we're already through to playoffs, and the pressure is mostly off, but as you can see, we're still playing at the very top of our game.”

Some of the Trojans are still streaming into the locker room behind him. Someone throws an arm around Jeremy's shoulders and squeezes. Someone else messes up Jeremy's hair. He needs a haircut.

“Jeremy, do you look at this as redemption?”

“Redemption for what?” Jeremy says. “Losing one game our entire season doesn't warrant redemption, I don't think. We have the best record in the NCAA, and we're looking forward to taking down the east coast teams in championships.”

They keep asking questions, but Jeremy is done. He waves and follows his teammates into the locker room.

*

Jeremy almost feels bad for the ASU Sun Devils. They must see the lineup—full games for most of the Trojans with a dealer switch-off halfway through, plus subs just in case—and think they're going to win.

But the Trojans have a full season's practice at this behind them, and the Sun Devils are not the Foxes. 

As is custom, the Trojans wreck them in the first half. In the second half, Alvarez comes on for Shereen and all the Trojans drop back to help defend. 

Shutout for Laila. Domination for the Trojans.

“Of course we're happy to make it to championships with a record like this,” Jeremy tells the reporters this week. “I'm psyched to have my last season with the Trojans go this well, but honestly, as you can see, it's not all me. We have the best defensive record on the west coast, and we owe that to our backliners and our goalies. You saw a pretty dominant performance from Jean, Theo, and Laila today. I think we're looking really good for next year, too.”

“Speaking of next year, Jeremy, what are your plans?”

Jeremy takes a breath. This was always the plan, he reminds himself; make the announcement and pass over the mics to his vice-captain. 

“I'm training with the Lightyears this winter break,” Jeremy says, blinking at the cameras flashing in his face. “If it works out, I'll be in Houston next year, but otherwise, looks like I'll be first draft. But it's not really my night.” He squeezes Laila's shoulder and then shoves her forward a little. “Laila's the star of the show tonight.”

*

With one loss all season, the Trojans make championships with the best record in the country.

Across the room, Jean is sleeping. Jeremy can't relax enough to do the same. 

It's too early to want it, but Jeremy can taste the championship. He's never won it. This is his last chance. 

It's a good thing he has these people behind him, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com)! please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo.


	8. meteors

“We look good, right?” Jeremy says, looking into the mirror attached to his wardrobe door. “Like, we always look good, obviously, given we're the hottest athletes at an already pretty attractive school, but in suits, we look extra good.”

Jean casts a critical eye down Jeremy's front. “You look like you do not know how to tie a tie.”

“Of course I know how to tie a tie,” Jeremy says. “What's wrong with it?”

“It is crooked.”

Jeremy looks into the mirror again. “No, it's not.”

When he turns, Jean is right there in front of him. “Let me fix it.”

“I—okay." 

The proximity is no big deal, really. He's this close to his teammates all the time. Still: when Jean curls his fingers around the fabric, Jeremy's throat goes dry. Jean undoes the knot and redoes it, straightening Jeremy's collar and then the tie itself.

Jean's suit is black. White shirt, red tie. Typical Trojan semiformal wear, except the suit is a little finer than the team-issued ones they wear when they're injured. No Trojan embroidered on the tie in dark red. No gold USC pin.

“I thought you were going to go with that grey suit.”

Jean's eyes flick up to meet Jeremy's. “I look good in black.”

Something fierce flares in the pit of Jeremy's stomach. “You look better in red.”

“I'm wearing a red tie.”

“Good,” Jeremy says. “It suits you.”

“Was that a pun?”

His fingers are still on Jeremy's tie. It would be easy. 

“I like the blue,” Jean says. “You look like a politician.” He traces a finger down Jeremy's jaw. “Especially clean shaven.”

“You think I look better clean shaven?”

Jean's hand drifts to the scar on the side of Jeremy's neck. He brushes his finger over it. Jeremy finds that he can't quite catch his breath. “I did not say that.” 

Neither of them says anything for a moment. It feels like something might happen. It would be harmless. A quick no-feelings hook up—

Jean seems to notice just as Jeremy does. He drops his hand, steps away. “Your tie looks better. Do you have a pin?”

Jeremy tries a smile. “You going to help me get that on, too?”

Jean huffs, looks away a little ruefully. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—cross a line.”

“You didn't.”

“I'm French. I—we are free with our hands. I know Americans are not—so touchy.”

“Jean. I don't mind. Have you seen any of the Trojans? I'm pretty sure—” Jeremy struggles to finish the sentence. “We all touch each other a lot. It's normal, right? Athletes.”

It's not that normal. Jeremy is sure that was a more intimate gesture than typical athletes have with each other. 

He forces himself to breathe. This can't happen. Not until he graduates.

“Seriously, Moreau. If you're—we always assumed you were uncomfortable with being touched. That's why we're kind of hands off. But if you're not, you'll get felt up on the court just as much as everyone else.”

Jean's eyes are wide. “I am not,” he says slowly, “uncomfortable with being touched.”

Jeremy's heart stutters. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

He looks down at his phone, pretends to notice a text. “Laila's ready to go.” It's a pretty blatant lie. “You coming in her car?”

“Theo's,” Jean says. “See you there.”

He should ask Jean about the partners thing. He should suggest Jean go in Laila's car or maybe Dev's. 

Instead, he grins, leaves the room, and practically sprints next door to Alvarez's.

“Jesus, the fuck happened to you?” Alvarez says when she lets him in. “You look like you're mid-panic attack.”

He feels kind of like that, too, heart hammering away in his chest, a little shakey, whiplash. But Jean is always poking and prodding, testing Jeremy's comfort levels. Why should this be any different? It doesn't mean anything. It can't mean anything. “I'm fine. You have any alcohol?”

“We're pregaming.” Katie hands him a shot glass. “Tequila or vodka?”

“Are you kidding? What do I look like to you? Tequila.”

Jeremy throws back the shot as soon as she pours it and immediately feels better. “Where's Laila?”

“She's getting ready in her room,” Alvarez says. “You don't want lime or anything with that?”

“It's a little late for that.”

Katie lifts the bottle of Cuervo. “You want another one?”

“I think I'm good, actually. Not trying to get drunk before the actual party starts.”

“Must be nice being over twenty-one,” Alvarez says, sighing. “Drinking openly at banquets and bars … buying your own booze instead of sending Mwangi out to get it …”

“I don't mind,” Katie says cheerfully. “You're only a couple months away, babe, don't worry.”

“Is the girlfriend coming?” Jeremy asks. 

“We all made a pact not to bring dates,” Katie says. “Did you somehow miss that? You're not bringing that lacrosse player, are you?”

“I don't need to bring him. He's already going.”

“But he won't be, like, sitting at the exy table,” Alvarez says, leaning toward a mirror to brush back her short hair. “It was Laila's idea, actually. She said the team-building would work better if we weren't hanging out with our dates the whole time.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she's going to sit next to me and pretend we haven't been fighting for the last month,” Alvarez says. “What do you think? How do I look?”

Katie scrutinizes her. “Super hot. Mexican goddess.” She does a little twirl in her dress. “Me?” 

“Also super hot. Kenyan goddess.”

Jeremy thinks they both look nice, but then, as far as he can tell the only difference from how they usually look is that they're not in workout clothes. And Katie might be wearing lipstick. “Are either of you interested in my opinion?” 

“Nope. Is Moreau coming in our car?”

“Theo's.”

“Glad to hear you solved that problem,” Alvarez says. “You're great at what you do, Knox.”

“I've been distracted,” Jeremy says. “You know, trying to make championships? Planning our little Joshua Tree getaway?”

“What are you guys talking about?” Katie asks. “What problem?”

“You know how Moreau only talks to Nowak and Knox?” Alvarez says. “That's a holdover from his old team.”

“Oh,” Katie says. “Yeah, you should fix that.”

“I'm working on it,” Jeremy says. “Laila and I did the seating plan for the athletics banquet.”

Katie laughs. “And you seated him away from yourself? Why is that hard for me to believe?”

“What? Why would that be hard to believe? He's sitting between Ro and Laila, actually, I thought it might be a good idea for him to get friendly with the rest of the defense.”

“And have a front row to the Alvarez-Abdul feud of 2017?” Katie says. “That's actually not a bad idea. Laila can bitch to him the whole time.”

“About me? Right next to me?” Alvarez rolls her eyes and starts to funnel tequila into her flask. “I'd like to see her try.”

“You're next to Dev on the other side. Y'all can just gossip the night away.”

“Great plan. Are we leaving the cars outside the banquet halls?”

“Yeah, Coach assumes everyone'll be too drunk to drive two hours to Joshua Tree.”

“Or sleepy,” Alvarez says. “You sure we can't go to the beach?”

“Can you please just trust me? Have I ever led you astray?”

“He hasn't,” Katie says. “Not even when he introduced you to—Laila! There you are! We were wondering if you drowned.”

“Didn't even wash my hair,” Laila says cheerfully. “You guys ready to go?”

“Been ready,” Alvarez says. She closes the flask and reaches for Laila's purse. “May I?”

Laila hands it over wordlessly, then turns and leads the way to the elevators.

“This is the weirdest fight I've ever witnessed,” Jeremy tells Katie as soon as he's sure they won't be overheard. 

“Not me,” Katie says. “You'd better hurry up. Pretty sure they both want you in the passenger seat.”

“God, I know. You think we have time for another shot?”

Katie prods him forward. Jeremy lifts both hands in surrender and jogs to the elevator.

*

They're the first of the exy team to get there, but not—as is made apparent by the buses and cars in the parking lot—the first of any sports team. The lacrosse bus is parked outside, and when Jeremy gets inside and makes a beeline for the bar, he runs into the only lacrosse player he really knows.

“You're looking good tonight, Knox,” Henry says, skimming a hand down Jeremy's side. “You were wearing a suit the night we met, remember? I thought you always dressed up.”

“You knew that was an injury uniform,” Jeremy says. Henry cleans up well. Really well, actually. And Jeremy could use the distraction. “You, on the other hand—”

“I know, I look amazing. I even brushed my hair. Doesn't it look good?”

“It definitely looks different,” Jeremy says, reaching up to touch it. “Is that gel? Weird.”

Henry cocks an eyebrow. “You don't like it?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Well, however you feel about it, don't mess it up yet, I didn't bring a comb with me.”

“Yet?” Jeremy says.

Henry grins. “We have fun, don't you think?”

“I can't believe you didn't bring something to touch up with,” Jeremy says. “That's a shame.”

“Don't change the subject.”

“I'm not,” Jeremy says, winking. “But I can't hang out later. We have an exy trip.”

“Oh yeah? Another of those famous bonfires?”

“We're going to Joshua Tree, actually. Meteor shower viewing.”

“I love stars,” Henry says. “Let me crash it.” 

“No plus-ones, and strictly no lax bros. It's team-building.”

“That's hilarious. You guys really do that?”

“That's why we have a winning record.”

“Low blow, Knox.” 

Over Henry's shoulder, Theo's carload of Trojans has appeared. Jean walks almost in sync with Theo. Jeremy doesn't know how he didn't notice it before. 

“I could go lower,” Jeremy says. “How late will you be up?”

“Not late enough to wait for you,” Henry says. He still has a hand curved around Jeremy's hip. His other hand is holding a champagne flute. “You free tomorrow?”

Jeremy steals the champagne, takes a long sip, then accidentally makes eye contact with Jean. Jean looks away quickly, and Jeremy hands the champagne back. 

“I don't know,” Jeremy says. “We might get back pretty late.”

“I'll text you,” Henry says, squeezing Jeremy's hip and letting go. “Have fun.”

“With you on the other side of the room? Not likely.”

“Come on. I've seen your team.”

“Best looking team at USC?” Jeremy suggests.

Henry laughs. “Second best. The lacrosse team has to win something, right?”

“Wow, a self-drag. I didn't see that one coming.”

“Sometimes I'm humble,” Henry says. “See you tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” Jeremy replies. The rest of the exy team has arrived, and he wants to see how Jean will do now that he's been taken out of his comfort zone. “Have fun. Hope you win something.” 

Jeremy makes his way back to the exy table, stopping to talk to a few other athlete acquaintances before sitting down.

“Wow, Captain Popularity,” Alvarez says when Jeremy sits down. “Nice to have you with us.”

“Sometimes I socialize with people who don't play exy,” Jeremy says. “It's a big secret. Don't tell anyone.”

He avoids making eye contact with Jean, who is silent between Rogelio and Laila. The lights dim; there's scattered applause. A waiter comes around to pour everyone without an X on their hand a glass of champagne, and Jeremy tries not to chug his. It's irrational for him to be this nervous—this is his ninth USC athletics banquet, probably his hundredth event like this. Maybe he's just uncomfortable in his suit.

“If I drink some of your champagne, will you snitch?” Shereen whispers next to him. “I hate these things.”

“You didn't pregame?”

“I mean, a little, but some extra never hurt anyone.”

“I think it's hurt a lot of people,” Jeremy says, but he passes her the champagne flute anyway. She takes a big gulp of it and hands it back. Jeremy sets it on the table instead of drinking any more—he's excited for the evening. He doesn't want to be so drunk he forgets it. 

The next time he turns to look, Jean is engaged in a whispered conversation with Rogelio. It's probably about racquet weights or something equally mundane. 

Jean notices Jeremy looking. This time, he holds eye contact.

Jeremy tries a smile. Jean raises an eyebrow, and Jeremy untwists himself to watch the speaker announce football awards.

*

The drive to Joshua Tree is two hours and twenty minutes, and the Trojans are tipsy enough that the trip is rowdy and loud, a few snuck-on bottles of soda mixed with vodka keeping them going throughout.

“Have you ever been to the desert?” Theo asks. He's sitting next to Jean in the row behind Jeremy's; Jeremy is on his knees leaning over the back of his seat to chime in.

“No,” Jean says. He's looking out the window, not at Jeremy or Theo. “We don't have deserts in France. Or West Virginia.”

“It's nuts. You're gonna love it.” Theo stretches his legs into the aisle. “Did you know our magical sunshine captain is a desert cat himself?”

“There were too many layers of ironic metaphor in that,” Jeremy tells him. “And I'm not from the _desert_ , just desert-adjacent.”

“Whatever. Our California surf bro cap is low key from Phoenix. Isn't that hilarious?”

“Yes,” Jean says, not laughing, which makes Theo laugh. “Are we going to Arizona?”

“No, Joshua Tree is pretty close, actually,” Jeremy says. “Still very much California. Seriously, it was so lucky there's a meteor shower the same night as this banquet, I don't think I've ever seen anything that beautiful in my life.”

“You're too high-minded to be an athlete,” Rogelio says, leaning over from across the aisle. “Dragging us to meteor showers. You want to read poetry too? Couldn't we just have had a bonfire?”

“We can have one in the desert,” Theo suggests.

“Yeah, and light the entire place on fire. Great idea.” Jeremy smiles. “No, but really, we won't care about anything else once we're there. It's nature's light show.”

Jean is looking at the dark landscape surrounding them. They're already outside of the city, and mostly there's just desert here, rocky and dry. It's the best time of year to be in the desert, Jeremy thinks: arid and cool, walkable, the scariest desert animals in hiding for the time being. 

“You'll like it,” Jeremy says. He doesn't know why it's so important to him. He wants Jean to have something he doesn't associate with Riko, maybe, since he spends all his time playing this sport. “It's—seriously. If you've never seen a meteor shower, they're beautiful.”

Jean meets his eyes. “I can imagine.” 

“You won't have to,” Theo says. “If Knox planned this right, we'll be just in time.”

“If I planned it right? I grew up in the desert, okay, I know how to plan a desert trip—”

Theo laughs at him and takes a sip of his Coke concoction before passing it to Ro, who shares it with half the rest of the Trojans defense. If any of them ever gets mono, they're all going to be fucked.

“And it wasn't Phoenix,” Jeremy continues. “It was Phoenix-adjacent.”

“Okay, our suburban desert child—”

“What happened to cat? Am I suddenly not a desert cat? Like—I could be a puma. Or a bobcat.”

“Are we having cat discourse again?” Alvarez says, showing up and sliding into the seat next to Jeremy. “You give yourself too much credit. No offense, but you would one hundred percent be one of those sand cats. You know the ones I'm talking about? The size of a kitten? Big eyes? Adorable?”

“They don't have those in Arizona,” Jeremy says. “Those are not Arizona cats. We only have big desert cats, of which I definitely am—”

“Remember when we were going to go to the beach and you were like, no, we must see the stars, we shall go forth unto the as yet unplundered riches of the desert? That's a sand cat thing.”

“That's a jaguar thing,” Jeremy says. “I'm a jaguar. At least.”

“Okay, I'll give you sand cat-bobcat mix,” Theo says. “But a jaguar? Do you know what jaguars look like?”

“Yeah. Badass. Like me.”

“Agree to disagree,” Alvarez says. “Right? We're never going to convince him. Of the truth, by the way.”

“Whatever,” Jeremy says. “At least I'm not a tiger.”

“Was that supposed to be an insult?” Alvarez says. “I'm definitely a tiger. That's a great cat. Nowak's a lynx, Ro's a cheetah—Moreau, we've never done you before.”

Jean blinks he like he forgot he was part of the conversation. “I do not understand the game.”

“It's not really a game,” Theo says. “We just like to joke about classifying each other as different types of cats, you know? We've been over most of them before.”

“Oh,” Jean says. “Which cat am I?”

“I mean—panther, right?” Rogelio says. “Like—come on. No?”

“I say lion,” Theo says. “Big, prefers to be in a pack—”

“Are you only going to compare me to African cats?” Jean says, raising an eyebrow. “Why not a domestic shorthair?”

“Okay. You're a domestic shorthair. Happy?”

“Delighted,” Jean replies.

Jeremy looks from Theo to Jean. Kevin has to be wrong. Theo read Jean perfectly, and the conversation between them seems so simple. This can't be toxic. They're friends. They're definitely friends. It's a normal close friendship.

Shit. He should just ask Jean.

“You want some?” Alvarez says, holding her flask toward Jeremy. “It's just Cuervo, but you didn't need the lime earlier—”

“I can't believe you guys are just drinking straight tequila like that,” Rogelio says. “That's honestly so gross.”

“Just because you need a mixer—”

“Oh, what, you're hardcore because you can down hard liquor?”

“If you look in the dictionary, it actually says that's the definition of hardcore,” Alvarez says. “There's a picture of me and everything. Just me and a bottle of Svedka, chugging away.”

“Ugh,” Rogelio says, making a face. “You are too much for me, Alvarez. If you want some Sprite, I have a two liter in my bag.” 

“Well, offer stands. Nowak? Moreau?”

Somewhat surprisingly, Jean holds his hand out. He takes a long swig, then wipes the back of his mouth a little daintily with a handkerchief, which is hilarious. 

“Thank you.”

“De rien,” Alvarez says, grinning. “I've been learning un peu francais, Moreau, how's my accent?”

“Horrific. But I appreciate the tequila.” 

“Extremely rude,” Alvarez says. “Extremely. You're very not welcome.” 

That's multiple sentences she and Jean have exchanged. Jeremy tries not to grin at it, but he's never been good at suppressing smiles, and he's not going to start now.

*

You can't see the stars in L.A. There's a whole joke about it, celebrities taking the place of actual celestial bodies, and it's one of the only things Jeremy doesn't like about the city. But just outside of it there's this, nature untouched and unpolluted by endless streaking neon light, stars presented in all their glory if you just look up.

They've brought lawn chairs and blankets. Some freshmen forget theirs, and Jeremy tosses his bag toward one of them. His blanket is big enough for at least a couple people to use. 

Instead, Jeremy settles on a rock formation and stretches back to look at the sky. He's always surprised, even now, after years, by the colors of the sky here. 

His team is stretched out in front of him on blankets and chairs, staring up at the stars. It makes Jeremy smile. For all their complaints about wanting to go to the beach, here they are, enjoying this, just like he knew they would. 

“Can I sit?”

Jeremy doesn't need to look around to know it's Jean, but he does anyway. Jean stands silhouetted against the stars, a black figure with yellows and blues and glittering violets splashed behind him.

“Of course,” Jeremy says, shifting a little to make space. “I have the best seats in the house.”

Jean huffs. “I studied before we came here,” he says, a confession.

“Really? What did you study? How to sit quietly and relax?”

“Rich.” The rock is big enough for both of them, but small enough that their thighs have to touch. Jean doesn't seem to have a problem with it. Not uncomfortable with being touched, Jeremy reminds himself. “I studied constellations. I didn't want to be the only one who didn't know them.”

“You might be the only one who does know them.” Stars streak through the sky—meteors, whatever. The idea that they're stars falling is more poetic. “Okay, I'll bite. What constellations do you see?”

“I don't know them that well yet.”

“Hit me anyway.”

“That one is Sirius,” Jean says, pointing to a star that Jeremy very much knows is Sirius. “The brightest star in the sky.”

“Wow, really? Do you mean stars vary in brightness?” 

“Yes, depending on how far they are and how old.”

“What do you mean old? Stars have ages? I thought someone just plopped them up there.”

“No, they are—you are joking!” 

The exclamation sounds so shocked that Jeremy bursts into laughter, causing some of the people near them—Laila, from her spot on a blanket with Cas; Shereen, lightning-fast grin—to turn around. 

“Okay, sorry, sorry, I don't know constellations but everyone knows the brightest star in the sky, come on—”

Jean gapes at him, and then he laughs, too. It's short and cuts off too fast, but it's the first time Jeremy can remember that he's heard Jean laugh, and the sound of it warms him enough that he isn't even annoyed anymore that he gave up his blanket. 

“Next you'll tell me that shooting stars aren't really stars.” 

A little indignantly: “They are not.”

Jeremy laughs again. “Sorry. It's cute that you studied for a drunken team hang, though.”

“You're not drunk.”

“Yeah, well. I'm not at my best when I'm drunk.”

“Who is?” Jean says. He produces a flask. “Want some?”

“What is it? Cabernet? Or are you more into whites?” 

“I do not only drink wine,” Jean says.

“Okay, so it's cognac.” Jeremy takes a swig. Very much not cognac. “Oh, wow, what is this?”

“Nowak brought it back after Thanksgiving,” Jean replies, like that's an explanation. “It's nalewka. Polish.”

“It's good.”

“I know.” Jean takes a much more measured sip than Jeremy did. “Now that I've gotten you drunk, I want to apologize.” 

“I am not drunk. Actually, I think you're a little drunk.”

“I want to apologize anyway. I did not mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Earlier.”

Jeremy stares at his hands in his lap. “I didn't feel uncomfortable.” 

“You ran out of the room.”

“It wasn't that. It was—” Jeremy sighs. “Nothing can happen. I'm not—we're on the same team. We share a room. I'm your captain.”

“That is noble of you, but I can make my own decisions.” 

“It's not about you,” Jeremy says. If he were less tired and less interested in the skyscape before them, he would think back over all his interactions with Jean over the last few months. Has Jeremy led him on? Have they been accidentally flirting this whole time? Was it an accident? “I wouldn't hook up with anyone on my team.” 

“Okay,” Jean says after a pause. “I have another question for you, then.”

“That was a question?”

“Another conversation topic I would like to explore,” Jean says. He might be fucking with Jeremy. Jeremy can't quite tell. “Why this? You said the beach. This is not the beach.”

“I know.” Jeremy looks up, follows the path of a shooting star from the edges of his vision down to the horizon. “We can go to the beach whenever. This only happens a few times a year.”

“I did not know you were interested in outer space.”

“It's what I wanted to do. Before exy, I mean. I wanted to be an astronaut.” Jeremy watches another meteor burn out. “I don't know. Sometimes you just have to sit and let yourself be awed by the universe.”

Jean doesn't say anything, and when Jeremy turns to look he finds that Jean isn't watching the stars. His eyes are trained on Jeremy's face. He's closer than Jeremy expected him to be, too.

There's a swoop in Jeremy's stomach that has nothing to do with the alcohol. He finds himself smiling. Somehow they keep ending up in these situations. 

Jean says, “I know what you mean.”

“About what?”

“Being awed by the universe.” 

“You gonna quit exy and be an astronaut?”

Something passes over Jean's face, but he doesn't move away. “No. But I think appreciating—everything. You were right, on Thanksgiving. I do have a lot to be grateful for.”

“I didn't mean it like that.”

“I know. But still. You—the Trojans gave me another chance. I could have died in the Nest.”

Jeremy finds Jean's hand, squeezes it, tells himself it's just a friendly gesture. “You didn't.”

“If I had gone back, I would have.”

“I know better than anyone that's not a productive way to think,” Jeremy says. “You didn't go back. You're here.”

Jean's hand closes around Jeremy's. “I know. Thanks to you.”

“And Renee Walker, the rest of the Trojans, Coach, Neil Josten, Kevin—and it's not like it was completely selfless, you know, you're the best backliner in college exy.”

“You are incapable of thinking just about yourself, aren't you? Everything is always about the team. Just let me say thank you. No ulterior motives. Just thank you.” 

“I don't—”

“Jeremy.”

“Okay,” Jeremy says. He smiles helplessly. There's a good chance he's totally fucked. At least it's almost winter break. Maybe he can even find a Lightyear boyfriend. “I'm happy you're here.”

Jean turns back toward the sky. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a bar in murray hill in nyc called joshua tree and it is about the douchiest, whitest establishment I have ever set foot in. don't spend your money there. you are honestly better off going to TGI Fridays for their happy hour $5 cosmos and apps than going to joshua tree. 
> 
> this has been bar reviews with flybbfly.
> 
> come talk to me on [tumblr](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com)! please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo.


	9. houston

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to note that, due to some recent planning and switchings up, the rating on this fic has changed. think of it as a hard pg-13 or a soft R. it has changed because some thematic elements probably always should have made it an M and also because of sex stuff to come (nothing explicit).
> 
> on the bright side this means i've pretty much planned through the end of this story! yay

The Lightyears training camp features Jeremy and twenty other college fourth and fifth year exy prospects, including a couple of Ravens, half of Penn's starting line, that Stanford backliner Palmer, and Matt Boyd from the Foxes. 

“Oh, hey,” Boyd says when he and Jeremy end up next to each other in line for dinner their third day. “I didn't realize I'd know anyone here.”

They don't really know each other. Jeremy smiles anyway. “Yeah, I think I'm the only person from the west coast here.” 

“Nah, that backliner Palmer from Stanford's my roommate,” Boyd says. “Listen dude, I know we're kind of broken up by position, but if you wanna sit with us we have a spot open.” 

He gestures over his shoulder at where Palmer—Jeremy remembers that concussion, unnecessary, Jesus—and the other backliners are sitting. Most of them are huge. 

“Speaking of backliners, by the way, I think it was really cool of you guys to take Moreau like that. He causing any problems?”

“I can't share team secrets right before championships, you know that,” Jeremy says. Boyd is a good backliner; it makes sense that he's here. Palmer is, too. “Might as well sit with y'all, at least you aren't my competition.”

“You don't think that's bullshit?” Boyd asks, scooping food onto his tray. “I mean, wouldn't they just extend contracts to whoever they found promising even if it was, like, a position they already had a couple of? They can afford it.”

“They've never signed more than one striker from their training camp.”

“Still, this could be your year.” Boyd grins. “I mean, I don't think you have much competition, to be honest. I can outplay everyone at that table. Except maybe Wien, but she's like ten feet tall and super fast.” 

“You play against a fast striker every day.”

“Yeah, but you can beat him by throwing the ball high enough over his head.” Boyd winces. “Forget I told you that. That strategy doesn't work. He has super jumping powers.”

“So you're here to scout your competition for championships?” Jeremy says. He lets himself be led to the backliner table. “You're not concerned about going pro?”

“Nah, I'm here, aren't I? So I get some good practice in, get to show off for the Lightyears, get to be first in line for other teams, hopefully first draft—most people who end up at this camp and leave without a contract are, right? I'm thinking L.A., actually, I miss big cities but I'd love to stay away from snow.”

“Honestly, the way the climate keeps fucking with us, I wouldn't be surprised if we got a couple inches this winter.” 

Boyd snorts. “Isn't half your state on fire? The snow would melt before it even got to the ground. Wait, aren't you from Arizona? Have you ever even seen snow before?”

“Handful of times, when we had games up north.”

The backliners look at Jeremy with some curiosity when he sits down. Jeremy spears some chicken with his fork and puts it in his mouth, chews deliberately.

“Not cool, by the way,” he tells Boyd. “People get hurt in those fires.”

Boyd lifts both hands in self-defense. “You're right, my bad. Everyone, this is Jeremy Knox, striker, captain, USC Trojans.”

“We know who he is,” a guy whose name Jeremy doesn't remember says. “What is he doing here?”

“Don't be rude,” Palmer says. He flashes Jeremy a cheerful smile. “I almost killed this guy in September and all he said was 'fuck off,' did you guys know that? He finished the game, too, I thought he was fine 'til he missed the next one.”

That seems to earn Jeremy enough bad-ass cred that the other backliners stop giving him untrusting looks. He sits with the backliners the next day, too.

*

When Jeremy first moved to L.A., he was miserable for at least a semester. His grandmother had just died. He went from a team where he was not only the star but the only viable player, the person around whom the rest of the team and the entire strategy were built, to a freshman third-choice striker. He was the only freshman striker, so he had the dubious honor of sharing a room with someone who didn't play exy since the others paired up so perfectly.

He practiced all the time. If he wasn't with the team, he was at the court by himself, trying to move faster than the endlessly churning anxiety working its way around his brain. If he wasn't playing exy, he was running or biking or lifting. Constantly, constantly trying to improve. He wanted to start for the USC Trojans. He wanted to carry them to championships even if he had to break his own body to do it. 

It stopped when the captain, a friendly fourth-year named Oliver, caught Jeremy at the court three hours before morning practice started. He made Jeremy get changed, dragged him to a team breakfast, and deliberately included him in every conversation. He threw a party that weekend and showed up at Jeremy's door to pick him up. He figured out Jeremy's class schedule and had upperclassmen have lunch with him every day until Jeremy had gotten over his anxiety and started making friends instead of just practicing all the time.

It worked. Exy is a team sport, almost as mental as it is physical. To be a successful exy player, you need to be strong and powerful, but you also need to be able to intuit where spaces will be, where to pass the ball, when to rebound, when to go for a shot. Part of that comes from experience. Part of it comes from knowing your team.

In Houston, Jeremy doesn't know anyone. But it doesn't matter, because no one else knows anyone, either. They aren't being tested on their ability to predict their teammates' actions; they're being tested on their ability to play despite not knowing their teammates. They're being tested on a combination of skill and instinct.

Some part of Jeremy regresses. With the Trojans, he's always both captain and striker, managing the team's strategy, looking for opportunities to score while simultaneously ensuring his teammates score too. So much of Jeremy's game relies on the people around him—Rogelio or Jean playing balls forward, Alvarez keeping the ball back or Shereen passing it, Laila banging it down the court, a one-two with a fellow striker—that knowing his teammates really well is crucial to his success. If he has to decide between passing to an open Katie or trying to make a clever shot, he'll almost always choose to pass. 

Well. Maybe not crucial. He singlehandedly led his high school team to nationals. That's the Jeremy Knox he relies on now—not adult, collaborative Jeremy Knox, but young, arrogant Jeremy Knox. Get the ball and get it to the goal. Only pass if there are no other options. Prove you're the best by being the best. 

He outscores all the other college strikers. It's not that they don't try, but Jeremy is faster than they are, better conditioned from the Trojans' full games. He catches balls from offensive dealers and tracks back to collect them from backliners. He runs until his legs threaten to give out, and then he runs some more.

He's not here to make his teammates look better. He'll never play with most of these people again. 

He's just here for himself. His goals, his skills, his future. 

He spends every practice relentlessly attacking the goal. The Lightyears play offensively. They win by overpowering their opponents with two strikers and an offensive dealer, trusting backliners and the goalie to keep the ball forward. That means Jeremy's strategy for this entire training camp is just to score as many goals as possible from the most complicated angles he can. With the Trojans, he falls back sometimes, retrieves the ball from an opposition striker or passes to Alvarez instead of forward. With this group of cutthroat fourth- and fifth-years, he doesn't need to track back. He just needs to score. 

He scoops the ball up from the offensive dealer, carries it forward ten steps. The other striker in this scrimmage is currently being marked by Matt Boyd. Jeremy sends the ball sideways. It ricochets off the wall and lands back in his racquet, giving him enough space to weave his way through Boyd and the other backliner. 

His striker teammate is waving his hands at Jeremy. Jeremy barely looks up, angles his body like he's going to shoot, and passes. 

His teammate fumbles to catch the ball. He wasn't expecting Jeremy to feint. He takes the shot anyway, swears when the goalie parries it away. It's a waste: Jeremy's build-up play was nice. He glances up toward the stands, knowing they're all being watched. 

Abruptly and absurdly, he wishes Katie were the striker on this court with him. She would've seen the pass coming. She would've scored off it, and they would've clacked their racquets and gone back to center court. 

Jeremy intercepts the ball when Boyd passes it to his team's dealer. This time, he goes for goal himself and relishes the resulting flash of red light. What was it Jean said, about always wanting to be the best?

He's not the captain here. He's not concerned about embarrassing the other team. His only objective here is to prove that he's worth the ridiculous amount of money the Lightyears have spent to put him on this court.

“Nice one, Knox!” the other striker says. 

Jeremy doesn't know his name, so he just shouts, “Thank you!” back.

*

It's a busy first week, and Jeremy doesn't have free time outside of practice and team-enforced sightseeing (on a bus, thankfully) until Saturday morning. Practice doesn't start for a couple more hours, and he promised Jean he'd check in, so he does.

Jean answers on the first ring. “Hello?”

It shouldn't be such a relief to hear Jean's voice. Jeremy smiles at no one and feels ridiculous.

“Hey. How's North Dakota?” 

“Cold,” Jean says. “It's snowing. It has been snowing since I got here.”

“I know three things about North Dakota, and one of them is that it's cold as fuck. I absolutely do not envy you.”

“What are the other two?”

“Fargo is there—you know, like the Coen Brothers movie—wait, are you, like, a movie guy?”

Jean huffs. Jeremy can see him rolling his eyes or quirking an eyebrow up. “Yes, I am, 'like, a movie guy'.” He says it in an exaggerated valley accent. “I am not a Coen Brothers guy.”

“But you've heard of _Fargo_.”

“Yes. What's the other thing?”

“It's on the Canadian border. Is that right? Have you been exercising those French skills?” 

Speaking of which—Jeremy settles into his desk chair and pulls up Amazon to order his textbooks. It's his last semester of college. He ignores the rush in his gut at that.

“It is right, but I have not. You are aware that most of Canada is not Francophone, right?”

“Yes, of course I'm aware, I just don't know Canadian geography. Can you blame me? Do you think Canadians know where—I don't know, like, Nebraska is?”

“Do _you_ know where Nebraska is?”

“I mean, like, roughly. If it was like a pin-the-tale-on-Nebraska situation I could probably get within a few hundred miles.”

“I can't tell if you mean that as a good or bad thing. Do you like Houston?”

“I don't know,” Jeremy says. He likes the city. He likes playing exy all day. It just kind of sucks to be far away from the network of support he spent so long building up. “It's nice. I'm working hard.”

“You are very good, you know. They would be lucky to have you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Jeremy says. 

It's silent for a moment. Jeremy cuts into it himself: “Sorry. No one likes it when I make that joke, but that's what I always imagine she'd be like.” 

Jean takes a second, but eventually he says, “How old were you when she died?” 

He has to know. Like everything else of note in Jeremy's existence, it's on his Wikipedia page. He should've known better than to tell some Phoenix sports reporter everything about his life when he was sixteen. “Eight. So I mean, everything I remember—my therapist says I'm probably idealizing her a lot.”

“I used to do that,” Jean says. “When I was thirteen or fourteen … I wanted my mother to come and save me. When I got older I understood she was the one who sent me there in the first place.”

Jeremy didn't know that. As usual when he learns something about Jean's history, he feels a hot flare of rage, wishes he could step into the past to stop it from happening. Bring him to Phoenix. Be his best friend. They could've gone to USC together. 

“I'm glad I never had to learn anything like that about my parents,” Jeremy says. “I mean, I'm not glad they died, obviously, but in a way—I just get to remember them as people who always made my life better.”

“But only because their absence made your life worse?”

“Yeah. I guess. I mean, I don't know—I could've been completely different, you know?”

“I do know.”

It's just dead air for a minute, Jean silent, Jeremy thinking about his mother buckling him into the back seat of his parents' car for the last time. He still remembers what she was wearing—a pink sweater, glasses he liked to play with, gold necklace dangling while she made sure his belt was tight. 

“I'm sorry,” Jeremy says. “I didn't call you to make you sad. I just called because—I don't know. Houston is weird. I mean, it's not bad or anything, I'm just not great at moving to new areas.”

Maybe it's because his grandmother died right before the last time he moved. Funny how that works.

Jean says, “Have you seen much of the city?”

“A little. We went out last night, did like, tourist stuff—it's nice. Plus the space center's here, so, you know, maybe I can become an astronaut after all. I can be the first exy player in space, wouldn't that be cool?”

“I don't think they let you into space with a degree in psychology and a minor in English,” Jean replies. “Maybe if you'd spent that time learning physics—”

Jeremy laughs. “What about you? When are you going to be back in L.A.?”

“Next week. Renee is going back to Palmetto for pre-championships practices, and I do not intend to go with her, so I scheduled some sponsorship meetings.”

“Tell her Boyd says hi.”

“Boyd? Matt Boyd?”

“Yeah, he's here, didn't I say? He's really good, actually, and he's also just a good guy to be around—like, I know it's weird that we have all these friendships with this team across the country, but if there's one thing I'm taking away from Houston—other than a contract—it's his phone number.” 

“He has a girlfriend,” Jean says. Jeremy can't read his tone, but he thinks Jean might be making fun of him again. “Dan Wilds.”

“I didn't have an ulterior motive there, actually. I just like him, and he's good at exy.”

“So you will both be at Houston?”

“You know, I wasn't even thinking of that,” Jeremy says. He's about to say something stupid, but when has that ever stopped him before? “I was thinking about the Olympics in a couple years. Could you imagine? Boyd-Moreau backline, me and Kevin Day starting, Laila in goal, Alvarez dealing—”

“The US Court starting line will not be an exact copy of the Trojans give or take a few Foxes.”

“If it is, you owe me,” Jeremy says. “Hope you're recording this conversation, 'cause this is gonna be worth bragging rights at least.”

The line is quiet for a moment. Jeremy breaks it again. “Hey. I miss waking up and seeing your pretty face every morning.”

“You are always so ridiculous,” Jean says, which is hilarious enough in Jean's accent that Jeremy has to laugh.

*

At the end of the first week, Jeremy is one of eight people chosen to practice with the A-team. Two in each position. Matt Boyd is gone, but he's only a fourth year. He'll still be first draft if his senior season goes well.

The only person Jeremy really knows who's made the cut is Palmer. 

“You think you'll be here next year?” Palmer says when they're at dinner the night before training camp ends.

Since only eight of them are left, they're spread out over two tables now. Positions don't really matter anymore. It's only been two weeks, but Jeremy is starting to feel like he's known these people his whole life—maybe because they spend ten hours a day on a court together and then get drunk in someone's hotel room. 

“I like it here,” Jeremy says. “It reminds me of home.”

“Phoenix, right?”

“Just outside of it. I like the tumbleweeds.”

“I'm from Chicago,” Palmer says, laughing. “I don't understand this no winter bullshit.”

“There's no winter in Palo Alto, either.”

“There's winter, it's just not Chicago winter.” 

“So you don't see yourself here?”

“If they pick me, I don't have a choice, right?” Palmer says. “Still, I don't know. It's been fun, but look at the guys we've been practicing with. You think we'd ever have a chance of starting?”

“If we're good enough, they'll start us,” Jeremy says. “Isn't that the whole point? Why sign a bunch of rookies if you're going to let them rot on the bench?”

“So other teams can't have them? So you look like you're constantly developing your team when in reality you're just trading for better players every year? So you can give off the aura of, like, parity within Major League Exy clubs while simultaneously keeping the best for yourself and letting the vultures get at the rest? Even if you're taking more than you need?”

“Okay, Stanford, we get it, you're smart,” Jeremy says. He refuses to let Palmer's analysis bother him. “Maybe you should play like it so the Lightyears will actually want you.” 

Palmer laughs. “I'm serious, though. Wouldn't you want to be at a team that gives rookies a chance?”

“Are you trying to intimidate me into sucking? I'm not a backliner.”

“I'm trying to have a serious conversation with you. We might both be here next year. I don't see a point in not being friends.”

Jeremy raises an eyebrow, leans back a little. He would've assumed they were already friends, a moment ago. “You going to apologize for concussing me?”

“I'm not apologizing for not letting you guys get away with that full halves bullshit,” Palmer says. “It's disrespectful to the teams you're playing, honestly. You don't even take us seriously enough to switch off? Come on.”

“We beat you playing full halves like a month ago,” Jeremy reminds him. “Maybe you shouldn't be taken seriously.” He grins at Palmer. “Just some friendly west coast shit talk before championships, right? All in good fun. We'll be friends when we're both in Houston next year.”

“All I'm saying is, I'm starting to feel like Boyd and company dodged a bullet,” Palmer says. “First draft and you don't have to live in fucking Houston? Sounds like a good deal to me.”

“What's wrong with Houston?”

“Other than the Trump stickers? And the fact that they don't play rookies?”

“If you hated the Lightyears so much, why are you here?”

“I don't know,” Palmer says. “I thought it'd be different. Didn't you?”

“I don't know what I expected,” Jeremy says. It's more honest than he meant it to be. “I still feel like I'm dreaming.”

“Why's that?”

“I don't know. I never really thought I'd be here.” 

Palmer takes a long time to reply, sawing through some chicken and swirling it in a pool of gravy. “You know what, Knox? That's a good answer.”

“This is a huge opportunity,” Jeremy says. “Like, if this works out, I don't have to worry about my future anymore. If I get this, I'm guaranteed a solid paycheck for the next five years. And I'm not—I know what happens to athletes after they retire. I'd dump every penny I didn't need into savings. If I don't get this, even if I'm first draft, there's no guarantee I'll be successful or ever make the kind of money that would justify—” He waves his fork in the air. “—I don't know, like, not living my life? Playing this fucking sport all the time instead of making friends or having relationships or spending time with my family?”

“Your family?” Palmer says. “But aren't you—”

“We don't know each other well enough for you to say that to me,” Jeremy says, setting his fork down. This isn't an interview, he reminds himself. He has no reason to be be pissed. 

He is anyway. He adds, “I'm done with this conversation.”

“Wait—Knox. I'm sorry. We're all on edge, right, it's been stressful as fuck here. You're right. I shouldn't have said that.”

“I don't know why you're insisting on turning this into something bad,” Jeremy says. “This is everything literally everyone in college exy wants. If they pick me on Sunday, I'm going to be fucking overjoyed.”

“I'm sorry,” Palmer says again. “You're right. That was way out of line. And this is a really good opportunity, I'm just saying—both of us are good enough that it won't be the only opportunity we ever get, right? You don't need to jump into the arms of the first person who asks you to marry them.”

“A five year contract with the potential to be traded isn't marriage,” Jeremy says. “Why are you so convinced this is a bad place to be?”

“I don't know. It's just a feeling. Have you looked at other rookies who've gotten their starts here?”

“Yeah, I have. Vega—MVP last year. Erikson—starting line for the Olympics last summer. Baird—top scorer so far this season. That's a good record.”

“But Vega went from Houston to Miami after two seasons, and he didn't get MVP until he was there. Erikson is starting for Canada, okay, don't be disingenuous—”

“—Canada made it to the semis, that's not bullshit—”

“—and Baird's been a Lightyear since 2013. He wasn't picking up starts his first season.”

“But their futures were all promising,” Jeremy says. “Even if their first season here wasn't.”

“But what about all the other guys? Rosa from their 2016 training camp hasn't started at all this season—

“—but when playoffs start and they have to play series every week, he'll get his chance.”

“Okay, Meyer from 2015 left immediately, and he went to Detroit, who are currently, what, like last in their division? Vega's 2014, Erikson's 2013, Baird's 2012—”

“Look, what you're pointing out right now? There are players who take the opportunities they see and players who don't. I'm not going to be the person who ends up rotting on the Lightyears' bench.” Jeremy takes a sip of his water. “I've made my way to the starting line of a top team before. I know it's not instant gratification, but I think it's worth it, if by the end of your time somewhere you're the best you've ever been.”

“Maybe you're right,” Palmer says. “I hope you are, anyway, 'cause as far as strikers go, you're definitely the best one here.”

“Palmer-Knox righthand axel,” Jeremy says. “It has a nice ring to it, right?”

Palmer grins, stretching a hand across the table. “Lightyears two-k-one-eight?”

“Lightyears two-k-one-eight,” Jeremy replies, clasping Palmer's hand.

*

The Lightyears throw a goodbye party for their trainees at their hotel, giant, too many athletes shoved into not enough space. It's smoky in the room, though how when none of them can smoke anything, Jeremy has no idea. The music is loud, bodies are pressed together, even Matt Boyd is here with his girlfriend.

Jeremy loves a party. He loves meeting people. He loves talking and dancing and drinking. 

He can't figure out why something isn't right. He's had too much to drink, maybe. It's all too loud—Jeremy can feel the rumble of it deep in his chest, blunt-edged panic rising slow, the shadow of a coming adrenaline spike. He backs toward the door a little, shuddering when he accidentally bumps into someone. The noise overwhelms him. He spills some of his drink and thinks, absurdly, of the cleaning fee he won't even have to pay. 

Across the room, he makes eye contact with Boyd, who flashes him a smile. Jeremy attempts one in return, and Boyd turns back to whoever he's talking to. 

Finally, Jeremy's back hits the doorknob. He gropes for it in the semi-darkness, twists, lets himself out.

The light outside the hotel room is too bright. It stings his eyes. He can hear the muffled noise from the party still going, but the relative quiet is instant relief. 

He leans against the wall and closes his eyes. He needs to breathe his way through the overstimulation, four seconds in, hold for four seconds, exhale for another four. It's a technique he's been using since he first started playing exy, courtesy of the child therapist who recommended he be taken off Klonopin. It's gotten him through nightmares, schoolyard fights, music festivals, and the SAT. The breathing, not the Klonopin.

Jeremy slides down, settles on the floor against the wall, and tries to figure out why he's having a low grade anxiety attack. This has all gone well. He's probably going to sign a contract tomorrow. Then he'll get through championships with the Trojans, finish his last semester at school, take a month off in L.A., and move to Houston to start his career. Maybe he can adopt a pet. 

“Hey.”

Jeremy looks up; Matt Boyd followed him out of the party, and he's looming over Jeremy, looking more concerned than he really has any right to.

“Hi,” Jeremy says. “Long time no see, right? You look super snazzy, by the way, I meant to tell you that.”

“It definitely wasn't me,” Matt says, picking at the hem of his short-sleeved button down. “One of my teammates always talks about how like, no athletes can dress, and honestly she's right. There's like, maybe two Foxes who have clothing in their wardrobes that's anything near trendy, and one of them made me buy this special for this party. Can I sit?”

Jeremy budges over to make space. “Allison Reynolds?”

“I thought you never learned player names.”

“I do when someone beats us,” Jeremy says. “Don't worry, it won't happen again. I won't have to learn any of your freshmen's names.” He waits for Matt to laugh, and then asks, “How was Palmetto?”

“It was good. I mean, it was a little funny to see Kevin all disappointed that I didn't get offered a spot here, but he knows the Lightyears never sign liabilities.”

“What?” Jeremy says. He's pretty sure Matt Boyd isn't one of the Foxes who was involved in all the potentially-mafia-definitely-murder-y bullshit last year. “How are you a liability?”

Matt stretches out his arm to show Jeremy the crook of his elbow. Track marks. “I've only been clean for two years. I knew they weren't going to take a chance on me once they saw these and got hold of my medical records, but—” Jeremy feels Matt's shoulder move next to him, a shrug. “Trying was worth it. I learned a lot, and next year I'll be pretty early in the draft, I think.” 

“That's not fair,” Jeremy says. “That's bullshit. You're clean, you're not—I mean, you're totally—”

“Stop. I know how the world sees people like me.” Matt stretches his long legs out. “What happened? Why'd you come out here?”

“Anxiety,” Jeremy says. “Hey, maybe I'm a liability, too.”

“Nah, everyone has anxiety.”

“Did you come out here to check up on me? Didn't realize we were that close.”

“Are you kidding? If I let the great Jeremy Knox get away without signing my jersey, Kevin would slit my throat in my sleep.”

Jeremy has a hard time imagining Kevin slitting anyone's throat. “Is it true? What Kevin says about the Foxes?”

“I don't know, Knox, what does he say?”

“Sorry, I'm kind of drunk.” Jeremy leans his head back and looks up at the ceiling. He can feel the vibrations from the loud music against his back. “You guys aren't friends with him?”

Matt hesitates. “We're friends, we're just not—I mean, we're teammates more than anything. He's a little—he's kind of a diva. Like, would I die for him? Probably. Do I want to hang out with him all the time, even when he's in his bitchy little 'why are you eating candy you are supposed to be a model athlete this is why you will never be great' moods? Not really.”

“No way. Does he really talk like that?”

“There are so many layers to Kevin, like, you have no idea.”

That makes Jeremy laugh, which makes him remember where they are and why he's out here and why Matt followed him. “Where's Dan Wilds?”

“I left her inside. She wanted to fangirl over the first female Lightyear. You know Dan was the first female college exy captain?”

“I know,” Jeremy says. “She's so bad-ass. If I weren't gay—”

“Thank you! You just settled a bet.”

“A—what?”

“Nothing. The Foxes—we bet on stuff, and one of the things we're currently betting on is—I mean, technically I'm not supposed to tell you, but we're betting on Kevin's chances with you.”

Jeremy snorts. “Okay, I definitely had a crush on him in high school, but that is long gone.” 

“I'm using that. Definitely using that. Going to drive the stakes up, bet against you guys, and then get a huge pot when you start dating, like, Tom Daley or whoever.”

“Okay,” Jeremy says, “there are a lot of gay athletes, okay, I don't only have Tom Daley as an option.”

“That's a good option. I'm setting you up with a great, good-looking, super talented, Olympic medalist—”

“You know the Trojans are going to have a female captain next season?” Jeremy says. “I know it's not, like, groundbreaking now or anything, but Laila's a great goalie and an incredible leader, and I'm just secretly glad she's not going to have to go through as much shit because someone else did it first.”

“Dan's honestly iconic, yeah, I agree,” Matt says. “I'm going to tell her you're like, completely obsessed with her, Kevin'll go insane—”

“You don't give him enough credit. He obviously respects her too.” 

“Fair enough.” Matt pushes himself back up to his feet and holds out a hand. “You want to come back inside? You can get the incredibly bad-ass Dan Wilds a drink.”

Jeremy takes it. “Best offer I've had all week.”

“Until tomorrow?”

Jeremy smiles. “I hope so.”

*

He gets it.

The navy and red jacket, a bag, new sneakers, a look at what his racquet will look like. He gets all of it. 

Then he takes a city bike to the airport and tries to enjoy his flight home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! next chapter is #highconcept and is already done so should be up in a week or so. 
> 
> i'm on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com). please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	10. car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter would not exist without the mad men episode “the suitcase”
> 
> warning for a panic attack described in detail around the beginning of this chapter. feel free to leave a comment or message me on [tumblr](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com) if you want more information.

Parked on the curb outside Terminal 1 is a car that is way nicer than it has any business being. Jeremy assumes Laila is still inside, but Jean, a consistent drama queen, is leaning against it in sunglasses and a white t-shirt in the middle of January. 

It's kind of incredible, how good Jean looks. The distance did help—there's a lot less of the churning discomfort that characterized the last few weeks of the semester for Jeremy—but he's still crazy hot. Something about the simpleness of his clothing, maybe, or just he shock of seeing him again after a couple of weeks. 

Jeremy blinks to clear his mind. “Wow, dude, I missed you way more than I expected to,” he says, leaning forward to hug Jean. He smells nice, too, damn him. “How are you? How was North Dakota?”

“Good,” Jean says. “I missed you too.”

“Where's Laila?” Jeremy says, stepping back onto the curb and looking around a little. “I didn't realize she was in on the DS deal.”

Jean looks confused. “She is not. She had a lot to do, and I have a new car, so I offered to pick you up.”

“What?”

“Is that okay?”

Jeremy opens his mouth to answer, but his voice sticks to the back of his throat. He looks down at his stuff—one backpack, one carryon. He didn't even bring a racquet. 

“I will put your stuff away,” Jean says. “You can get in. The doors are open.”

Jeremy maneuvers himself into the front seat but can't make himself close the door. He definitely can't go all the way back to campus like this. It's irrational. He knows it's irrational. Except it's not irrational, because he can count on one hand the number of people he's allowed to drive him anywhere in a car since he was eight years old. 

“Laila mentioned it might take you some time to acclimate to being in a new car,” Jean says. He's in front of Jeremy, bending a little to make eye contact. “I can show you where the airbags are, if that would help. And the seatbelt. I have a list of the safety features on my phone. I am supposed to be selling these cars, after all, though I do not think this is what they had in mind—” 

He stops. Jeremy blinks up at him. There's a tightness in his chest that he can't overcome no matter how many deep breaths he tries to take. He feels like he has to gulp to get any air in.

“This is a panic attack,” Jean says, reaching for Jeremy's shoulder and stopping. “Okay. You do not take anything for this, right?”

Jeremy shakes his head.

“Can I touch your shoulder?”

“ _No_.”

“Do you want to wait it out, or should I start driving?”

“It doesn't matter,” Jeremy manages. “I don't—” 

Jean waits for him to finish the sentence, and when he doesn't, says, “Okay. Move your legs.” 

Jeremy moves them. Jean closes the door and gets in on the other side. 

“I've been driving since I was fifteen,” Jean says, adjusting the mirror and choosing a song on his phone. “I have a perfect record. Not even a parking ticket.”

He doesn't exactly have the same incentive now, though, does he? 

Jeremy curses the thought as soon as it passes through his head. He squeezes the grab handle and keeps his mouth shut as Jean peels off the curb and onto the highway.

“Is this going to be okay?” Jean says, when Jeremy is still on the verge of hyperventilating a few minutes later. “Should I stop? Do you want a Klonopin?”

“I shouldn't have gotten in your car. I should've stayed at the airport. I could've—waited. I didn't need—I would rather have just waited. She shouldn't have—you—”

“We are thirty minutes away from campus. I can pull over and call a taxi, or we can keep going.”

“Call Laila,” Jeremy grinds out.

Jean glances at him, then merges into the exit lane. “Okay.”

“No—wait. Don't. Just—a taxi wouldn't be better.”

Jean switches lanes again. “The likelihood that you would be in two fatal car wrecks in your life—”

“ _That isn't helping._ ”

“Sometimes walking through the reasons my anxiety is illogical helps me.”

“It's not illogical,” Jeremy snaps. “I still have the fucking scars.”

Jean falls silent. Jeremy looks over at the steering wheel, which Jean has a loose hold on, like he's been driving for a hundred years. His fingers are scarred much worse than Jeremy's neck or shoulder. 

Jean catches him looking. “I still have the scars, too. It is illogical for me to be—scared of him.”

Riko is dead. Cars still exist. People die in them every day. 

“It's not the same.” 

“I know.”

“Looks like your therapy's working,” Jeremy says. It's mean. He shouldn't have said it.

Jean's reaction is a low, startled laugh. “Yes. Therapy is working.” He glances at Jeremy again. “What works for you? This is not the first time this has happened.” 

“I—distract me.”

“You aren't afraid I will not be paying attention to the road?”

“ _Jean_.”

“I'm sorry. I do not—” Jean sighs. “Do you know what the weather is like in North Dakota?”

“Cold.” 

“Yes. Frigid. West Virginia is not warm, but North Dakota—Renee made me wear those long underwear. Stephanie's house is surrounded by so much land. It was so quiet at night. It was—a little hard to sleep.” Jean looks over at Jeremy, who is forcing himself to breathe normally. He tries those stupid mindfulness patterns that have gotten him through his anxiety a thousand times. He gives up before he makes it to the fourth count. “I have never shoveled before, but she taught me how to use a snow blower. Renee, I mean. There is a cat living in the woods by her house, and they feed her in the winter. Are you a cat person?”

“I don't know,” Jeremy says. He remembers his grandmother doing the exact same thing. He wants to throw up. “I like dogs.”

“Me too, actually. But this cat was so friendly even though she is feral. Stephanie lets her in sometimes, when it is very cold, but she isn't house trained. She peed all over my clothes. We had to have them dry cleaned.” He sighs. “I spent Christmas in a sweater that was too small for me and dirty sweatpants.” 

Jeremy wonders how pissed Jean will be if he really pukes on the shiny leather interior. One-two-three-four-exhale—he still feels dizzy. He closes his eyes and wills Jean to talk more. “How was it?”

“Christmas? It was—it was nice. I have not done Christmas the American way before. In West Virginia, Christmas was just another day. We practiced. They had red and green cookies at dinner. Sometimes Kevin and I would give each other presents—little things, unnoticeable. Books. He likes books. I like movies. Sometimes he would give me movie tickets, if we could manage to sneak away from campus or turn it into an outing. That was the only way we really found to celebrate. But then—even in France, we had a nativity, but that was it. It rarely snowed, and Santa Claus didn't come to my house.”

“We always had a nativity too,” Jeremy says. Except for the one after his grandmother died, all his memories of Christmas are warm and happy. Church. Christmas music. Candles. “My grandmother and me.”

“Are you Catholic?”

“I guess. She was. We went to church every Sunday, every holiday. When she died, we did a big Catholic production with all her friends, and then I just … never went to church again.”

“So no?”

“I don't know. My parents died when I was eight. How many eight-year-olds have sophisticated enough like, perspectives of the afterlife to even wonder whether their parents went to heaven or hell? I just assumed they went up.”

“I've seen you pray,” Jean says. “During a game, sometimes.”

“To my grandmother. She was religious, so she's probably up there. I can imagine her being saved by Jesus Christ. You never pray.”

“My family is Catholic, too,” Jean says. “I stopped believing in God when He ignored me all through my adolescence.” 

“Can't really blame you for that.” 

“So much of the rhetoric is about having a savior. When I needed one, there was no one there. For a while I thought maybe I did not deserve it, but now … Are you feeling better?”

“Of course you deserve it,” Jeremy says. There's traffic, but Jeremy's breathing has regulated. He still has a death grip on the grab handle, but he can open his eyes without feeling like he actually might die. “No one deserves what he did to you.”

“So yes, you are feeling better?”

“What?”

“You seem to be back to yourself.”

“Jean.”

“What?”

“I used to think that too. That I didn't—maybe I didn't deserve to be happy, or have parents, or a normal childhood. I prayed for them to come back all the time. I couldn't believe they were just—gone, just like that. I mean, I was eight. One morning I had parents, and then we went to their friend's house, and maybe it was because I was being annoying or loud or whatever, and then I woke up in the hospital and then I didn't have parents anymore.”

“You thought you didn't deserve to be happy.” Jean makes a sound that's too sad to be a laugh. “You. The crown jewel of California. So nice you opted to live in a double your senior year just so your fucked up roommate would not have to live alone. So obsessed with fairness you let the Foxes win last year.”

“You don't know what I was like as a child.”

“It does not matter what you were like then. You were a child.”

“Not a very good one.”

“It doesn't matter,” Jean repeats. “You said yourself that is not a productive way to think. If you deserved that, what does it mean for the rest of us?”

“I'm not as perfect and pure as you think I am.”

“Do you know how many D1 captains would have taken a chance on me? Even the Foxes would not take me, and they'll take anyone.” 

“That was selfish,” Jeremy says. “You make us better.”

“It wasn't selfish. I could have rotted in that room in South Carolina. But then you swooped in, and—here I am. Are you hungry?”

“Jean.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I—sure.”

“Can you trust me to get you home safely even if I detour to that restaurant?”

“It's not about trusting you to get me home safely,” Jeremy says. He feels wrung out. “It's about—”

“So yes?”

“What? Yes. Fine.”

Jean takes the exit. 

“I don't think of it like that, you know,” Jeremy says. “I don't think of it like me saving you. One of our seniors was a backliner, and why wouldn't we take the best college defender in the country as a replacement? Especially if it would weaken our biggest rivals? I knew Ro would be annoyed since he was supposed to start, but—it was always about the team. Not you.”

Jean does that sad laugh again. “I should not be surprised. You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Treat every decision you make as if it will affect the whole team.”

“You don't think poaching a star Ravens backliner, who was literally marked for the perfect court, and then replacing our rising fifth-year with him would have affected the whole team?”

“No, I understand that. I just—sometimes I wonder if you ever make decisions just for yourself.” 

“Of course I do.”

Jean pulls into the parking lot of a cute Chinese place. “I came here for a date once,” he says.

“What? When was that?”

“Last semester. Around October, I think? He is a water polo player.”

“Ugh,” Jeremy says. “You're only into other fishes.” And him. It might've just been a single night's weakness, but Jean definitely was into him before that banquet. Jeremy forces himself not to think about it.

“I thought the plural of fish was fish.”

“Your English is way better than mine, dude.”

“You have a minor in English.”

“Yeah, like—literature. Not grammar.” Jeremy smiles at the host, follows him through the dining room. “What happened? With the water polo guy?”

“Nothing. We hooked up, and now sometimes we see each other at the gym. I was not in the right frame of mind to date anyone, but the—physical closeness was nice.”

“Speaking of which. When I hooked up with Henry, that was a decision just for myself.” Except—Jeremy thinks, suddenly glad that Jean can't read his mind—he hooked up with Henry to distract himself from his crush on Jean. Which he can't pursue because of the team. Jesus. Maybe Jean is right.

“Fair enough,” Jean replies. They're seated by the window. Some of the people in the restaurant are in USC gear, but they're far enough from campus and the start of the semester that most of the clientele aren't USC students. Or at least, they don't look like they are. “But you do not make those types of decisions frequently.”

“If I had more time, I might.”

“That is not what I mean.”

“What do you mean, then?”

Jean looks down at the menu. “What are you having?”

“I don't know. What's good here?”

“Whatever. Everything. I only had the lamb noodles. And their house red, but for the sake of your sanity, I will forgo it this time.”

Jeremy laughs, a drier sound than he was expecting. “Thanks. You're a real pal.”

“So you enjoyed Houston, I take it.”

“I don't know. Yeah, I did.” Jeremy shrugs. “This could be really good for me.” 

“To be the best, you have to play for the best,” Jean says. He scratches at the tattoo on his cheek. Jeremy can't tell if it's deliberate.

“I was talking to Kevin about this, actually.” Jeremy waits, but Jean doesn't look surprised that he and Kevin talk. “He thinks it'd be more fulfilling to play for a team that needs work than a team that's already amazing. What do you think?”

“I wouldn't respect a team that could not win games without me,” Jean says. “I want to make a team better, but I do not want to be the entire engine behind its success.”

“That's the difference between you and Kevin, I guess. He'd probably love that.”

“He would not,” Jean says. He pauses, stirs his noodles with his chopsticks, looks back up at Jeremy. “Actually, maybe I don't know. I expected him to come back to Edgar Allan on his knees, begging to play with the best again, but instead he—” Jean waves a hand in the air. “I do not think the Foxes would have won without him, but they would not have won without the rest of that team, either.” 

Jeremy remembers the sting in Kevin's voice, _they wouldn't take a chance on me right-handed_. “You would've had him back? Even without the use of his best hand?”

“No. He would have been a coach, or—more likely he would have been kept around as a warning.”

“A warning of what? What happens to players who are better than Riko?”

“What happens to players who try to leave.”

“That doesn't make sense,” Jeremy says. “They don't own you. If I left USC, yeah, people would be pissed, but—it's my right. It's my life.”

“I understand why you think that, but it is not the way at Edgar Allan. I told you. My parents traded me to settle their debts. The Moriyamas own me.”

“Owned,” Jeremy says. “Past tense.”

“Not quite,” Jean says. 

“You're here. You don't owe them anything.”

“There were conditions,” Jean says, “to my coming here.”

“What? Whose conditions? I _saw you_ last spring, you could've pressed charges, you could've sued—”

“I could have,” Jean says. “I would have lost, and a few months later I would have ended up dead. They probably would have made it look like a suicide.”

Jeremy stares at him. He doesn't know how to take this news. He knew Riko was abusive, knew there was something shady going on, but he didn't realize it was—like this. He thought—he doesn't know what he thought. That it was an Edgar Allan issue. That removing Jean physically meant he only had to cross emotional hurdles in therapy to be rid of all of it. But if this is real, if there's murder involved and Jean genuinely fears being murdered—

Something clicks: “You mean like they made Riko's death look like a suicide?”

“That was a gift,” Jean says. 

“A gift? They killed their own family as a gift? For who?”

“Neil Josten.”

“What? What does he have to do with this?”

“When I first met him, I thought he was a stupid child,” Jean says. “He is so small—and he was mediocre, too, the first few months. He trained at Edgar Allan last winter.”

“I know. I remember.”

“We were partners,” Jean says. “For every mistake he made, I was punished. It is a kind of—” Jean stops to chew a bite of his food. Jeremy can't believe he still has an appetite. “At the Ravens, your partner is—your other half. You are rewarded for each other's triumphs, punished for each other's mistakes. Neil made many mistakes.”

“I thought you only partnered with people in your same position.”

“You know about this?”

“A little,” Jeremy says. “Kevin mentioned it.”

“In regards to me?”

“Do you think that's something we need to address?” Jeremy says. “You and Theo—”

“No,” Jean interrupts.

“Then no. Unless it becomes an issue.”

“I have been with Laila all week,” Jean says. “Not only Nowak.” 

“That's progress, right?”

“We are only—friends. I'm still learning how this works. Nowak happens to be the first person I have gotten to know because we play the same position and practice together. Not because I—think I am somewhere else.”

Jeremy's gut clenches again. He spent all that time trying to figure it out with Alvarez and Kevin and Laila. He could've just asked. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

“It is not—don't apologize. You are only trying to make things easier for me. I know that.” 

“Okay,” Jeremy says. “I—still want to hear about Neil, though.” 

“He grew up playing as a backliner, so the master restored him to his rightful position.” Jean's eyes glint. Riko is dead, Kevin has a new tattoo, and Neil has a burn scar. Jean is the only one with a number still on his face. “Number four. Ravens backliner.”

“So when he was marked for the perfect court—”

“It was because he belongs to the Moriyamas, too.”

Jeremy's fingers are numb. He doesn't know why he thought having Jean distract him would soothe his anxiety. None of Jean's stories are happy. 

“I don't understand what that means,” Jeremy says. “I thought—I thought it was just hazing that had gone too far. I didn't realize—I mean, Jean, they can't _own you_. Either of you. You said mafia ties, not—I mean, that's not—you're your own person, it's not—”

“Be grateful. You can do what you like with your life.”

“So can you.”

“In a way,” Jean says. “But only because of Neil Josten.” 

“I still don't follow.”

“He made another trade. He bought my freedom from the Moriyamas in exchange for most of my future earnings as a professional exy player.”

Jeremy pushes his plate forward a little. “What if you don't play exy?”

“I don't intend to find out,” Jean says.

“That's not freedom. What if you wanted to be—a doctor, or, or an engineer, or a fucking—I don't know, movie director? What, you just wouldn't? Because they say so? You don't owe them that. You don't owe them anything.”

“There is a lot you do not know,” Jean says. “Neil's argument was that they had invested so much time and money into me that they should ensure my future career. Part of that was allowing me to leave Edgar Allan.”

“Allowing you,” Jeremy says. His voice sounds hollow even to him. “You left on your own.”

“No. I was dragged out. I tried to go back twice.”

When Kevin told him about Jean, he said Jean was having issues adjusting to being out of Edgar Allan. Jeremy had no idea this is what he meant. “Why?”

Jean breaks eye contact at last. He spins a chopstick on the table, watching it until it stops moving. “You don't understand.”

“No, I don't. Are you going to explain?”

“I told you therapy is working.”

“Yeah. I mean, that's obvious. We wouldn't have had this conversation nine months ago. We wouldn't have had any conversation.”

“I don't like to talk about myself as a victim,” Jean says. “But that is why—I thought that if I went back, I could escape the punishment.”

“You said if you went back, you would've died.”

“I would have. I know that. I know. But before—I did not see a way I could possibly stay in Palmetto. I had to leave, even if it meant I might die there. If I did not do it on my own, someone would come fetch me, and they would not be as gentle as Renee Walker.”

“Your ride to South Carolina.”

“She kidnapped me,” Jean says. “Sort of.”

“So you're telling me that I have to thank Renee Walker for kidnapping you and Neil Josten for trading your future for your freedom.”

“No,” Jean says. “But I probably do.”

“But you and Renee are friends. You and Neil aren't friends.”

“It's complicated. Neil was just another Raven property, but Renee—she was nice to me. I liked her.”

“You liked her. Like—in a romantic way?”

“Just a crush,” Jean says. “I'm not her type.”

It takes Jeremy a moment, but then he laughs. “Are there any heteros in this sport?”

“I have yet to meet one.” 

Jean finishes his meal, but all Jeremy can do is push food around his plate. He feels emotionally drained. He doesn't know what to do with all this information. He still feels like he's only seeing part of a picture, and the more Jean tells him, the more evident it is that the picture is bigger than he initially thought. Violent hazing? No, it's worse than that. Trading players like animals? Nope, worse than that too. 

“Jean.”

Jean looks up, then back down at Jeremy's plate. “Are you okay?”

“I just—thank you. For sharing, I mean. It can't have been easy. I'm sorry you've had to—deal with all that. For so long. And I'm glad you're here, and I'm—really proud of you for—”

“Stop,” Jean says. He's smiling a little. “Thank you, but none of what I have shared is a secret. It's just my life. I'm used to it.”

“No one should have to get used to that.”

“No one should have to get used to being an orphan, either,” Jean says. “But lots of people do. I've heard.”

“You're so cheesy. I mean it. I'm—the news just said it was hazing.” 

“It was hazing unchecked by the need to follow any rules,” Jean says. 

“It was the same for Kevin?”

“Sort of. He is one of the Sons of Exy. He was not property the way I was, or the way Neil Josten would have been.”

“But he just left you there?”

“I do not want to talk about that.”

“But Kevin isn't—I mean, he's serious, but he's not an asshole, he can't have—”

“I said stop.” Jean's tone hasn't changed, but he's searching for their waiter, presumably to ask for the check. “You don't know him. He did what he had to do to survive.”

“Jean—”

“I don't want to talk about him.”

“Haven't gotten that far in therapy yet?”

Jean stares at him for a long, quiet moment. Jeremy tries not to shrink under his gaze; he knows he shouldn't have said that. “That was an inappropriate joke.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I was trying to not be awkward.”

Jean raises his eyebrow. “I think we are past that.” 

The waiter drops off the check. Jeremy gets it—“In exchange for the ride and talking me down—stop it, I just got paid an obscene amount of money and I'm about to be rich, no one's docking my paycheck”—and they walk back to Jean's car in silence. 

“Are you going to be okay for the rest of the trip?” Jean says, looking out the windshield and not around at Jeremy.

“Just give me a minute,” Jeremy says. “I—” He squeezes his eyes shut, inhales, exhales. “I just need a minute. I'm going to be fine.”

“You—” Jean says, and then, “Never mind.” 

If it were any other situation, Jeremy would probe. Instead, he says, “I'm sorry. I know this is annoying.”

“Stop. How many times did I wake you up last semester?”

“None. I was always already awake.”

“The truth at last,” Jean says. 

Jeremy can't tell if he's joking or not. He opens his eyes.

“I really am sorry,” Jeremy says. “No one really knows I don't—I mean, I try to keep it to myself. I had to meditate through my first few bus trips with the team, but buses aren't as big a deal for me as cars. Like, the literal only person other than Coach whose car I ever get into is Laila. And sometimes Dev, but only if we're staying on campus. The day after Thanksgiving Alvarez offered to drive me back to campus and I chose to ride my bike instead. It wasn't even nice out, and I only had my nice clothes, but the idea of getting in a car with her—I'm sure she's a safe driver, I just—can't do it.”

“That's why you wanted Laila to pick you up and not a taxi or an Uber.”

“I feel bad sometimes since she like, carts me around, but she never complains about it, and I try not to abuse her kindness.”

“I have never been in an accident,” Jean says. “I've driven with concussions, on pain medication, drunk—I have never been hurt by my car.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

“You are misunderstanding me. I play better here than I ever played with the Ravens because here I am not—I'm usually healthy. So of course I would be a better than average driver if I was a fine driver even with all those—extenuating circumstances.”

“I told you,” Jeremy says. “The logic thing doesn't work on me. It doesn't have to be your fault. My parents weren't at fault in the accident—we had the right of way in an intersection, someone came speeding at us, the car just—crumpled. Random shit happens.”

“You can't live your life hiding from random shit.”

“I know that. This is my one thing. I'm always working on it, but sometimes the only thing that helps is like, my springtime course of antidepressants and long bike rides. And, like, crazy amounts of therapy.”

“Can I come with you?”

“To therapy?”

“No,” Jean says. “Although that might be interesting. Does your therapist specialize in trauma?”

Jeremy shakes his head. “Anxiety. I did the trauma thing, the childhood grief thing, I did all of that when I was in middle school and high school. It worked, I guess, I mean I stopped having nightmares but I still don't drive a car or anything. It should make me rethink Houston, probably. Like, what do I do if I hurt my leg and I can't ride a bike?”

“That's what I meant. A bike ride. You mentioned Glendale.”

“Oh.” Jeremy smiles. “You'd love it. I feel like you're low key a nature guy. You were into Joshua Tree.”

“Maybe,” Jean says. “I have never had the chance to be.” 

“So you're saying the next time I invite you to the beach, or on a bike ride, or to hike or something, you'll say yes?”

“If I don't have homework.”

Jeremy laughs. “I can't believe how much of a nerd you are.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“Yeah, I'll bet.” Jeremy puts his seatbelt on and folds his trembling hands in his lap. “How did you get this, anyway? College athletes can't have sponsorships.”

“It is an endorsement, not a sponsorship. I am the official college spokesperson for DS.” He shows Jeremy his phone. “We shot the ad last week.”

Jeremy watches it, a thirty second spot with some bullshit voiceover about never giving up, being a comeback kid, making the change that'll change your life. 

“Cute,” Jeremy says. 

“I missed having a car. Abdul did one, too, for Nike. Those athletic hijabs.” Jean is still staring at Jeremy, so intensely that Jeremy's stomach rumbles a little. “Are you good?”

“I hate this,” Jeremy says, too honest. He closes his eyes and forces himself to take deep breaths. Ten minutes and they'll be home. Just ten minutes. “Just go.”

Jean starts the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is a little unconventional but I really liked writing it and I really hope you all liked it! Back to normal next chapter.
> 
> Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com). Please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	11. captain

It's Jeremy's last semester at USC, and the finality of it all starts to hit him—the last first day of classes. The last time he'll be able to joke about already being behind in the reading. 

He's taking a pretty easy courseload. He finished his psych degree last semester and is working on his minor in English, and all he has left is a Shakespeare seminar and a modernism lecture. He tacked on Advanced French to maintain enough credits to technically still be a full time student, and it turns out to be the hardest class there. It's his fault—he assumed an AP class six years ago would stick in his mind until now. It has not.

As a result, Jeremy is in the library a lot more than he ever has been before. When he was doing psych stuff, he sometimes went to office hours or hung around the psychology building to study. He's spent most of his English-heavy semesters reading in his room or on the bus between games. Now, unless he wants to bike across campus to the foreign language and area studies complex, he has to make do at the library.

It's weird being a fifth year at the library and realizing he doesn't know very many people here anymore. Probably if it were his third year he'd know a lot more. Definitely. Now, most of the people he knew here have graduated, and all the underclassmen he's at all aware of are on the exy team.

Jeremy forces himself to stop being so melancholy. It's graduation. He's been looking forward to this. At the end of this semester, he'll be moving to Houston. That's a good thing. 

He has a long list of words to define and put into sentences. Spanish is so much easier than this. When he first started taking French in high school, he always got the two confused. Now he can't understand how that ever happened.

“Are you taking French?”

The voice cuts through the silent library. Jeremy looks up; absorbed as he was in conjugations, he didn't notice Jean show up. A few of the people around them look up to glare at Jean for all the noise, but it's early enough in the semester that no one cares too much.

“Yeah, and I'm starting to think high school French wasn't enough for me to just jump into Advanced four years later,” Jeremy says. “I'm supposed to be doing the first chapter of Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, and I can't even get the vocab list down.”

Jean stares at him. “ _Why_ are you taking French?”

“Um,” Jeremy says, a little confused. “To enrich my life? I speak Spanish and English already, might as well add another language, and it's a Romance so I've never had much trouble with it—”

“Oh,” Jean says. “Not—for any other reason?”

“I mean,” Jeremy says. He stares at Jean. He signed up for the class without thinking about it—needed the extra credits, needed another semester of a language to get the credits from his AP score and didn't want to bullshit his way through Spanish but also has only taken the French and Spanish AP exams—but maybe there was something else to it. He didn't consider it until now. “I don't think so.”

“You don't think so?”

“What do you want me to say, Jean? I don't think I've ever even heard you speak French.”

“I don't—have much use of it.” Jean's eyes are wide. “Everyone here speaks Spanish.”

“You should learn it. It's so much easier than French. And Japanese, probably. And definitely English.”

“Are you done listing the languages I speak?”

“Want to help me with this? How is 'metiér' different from 'carriere'?”

Jean's mouth opens, then closes again. “I'm sorry?”

“I mean, they both just mean job, right? Is there something I'm missing?”

“I—let me see your notes.”

Jeremy pushes his notebook toward him. “I thought I was just going to breeze through the book, but I think I'm missing connotations and stuff and as a result like, the whole point of the book.”

“Yes.” Jean looks down at the notebook. “Connotations—I can help with this.” 

“Are you sure? You're not busy?”

“No, I was—I was looking for you.” Jean must be done reading Jeremy's notes, but he's still looking at the notebook. “Abdul mentioned you were complaining about this at breakfast.”

Abdul. Not Theo. Jeremy forces himself not to react. “And you had to track me down? Why is it so bad if I take French?”

“It isn't bad.” 

“So…?”

“I don't know,” Jean says. He closes the notebook abruptly. “I don't know why I came here. I'm sorry.”

“No, wait.” Jeremy squeezes his eyes shut briefly. “Look, sometimes I think in Spanish or—or have a full conversation with someone in Spanish. Like at the Alvarezes over Thanksgiving. And it's just—I feel like I'm a different part of myself in that language. A little bit more certain of what I'm saying, if only because—my vocabulary isn't as robust or refined. And I know it's like that for Alvarez too, and Laila with Arabic. So I guess I just—wanted to make sure you had someone to be that person with. Even if I can't reciprocate that well because my French isn't where it was when I was in high school.”

“You are taking French so that I can more fully express myself?”

“No,” Jeremy says. “I mean, that's part of it, but it's more like—if you wanted someone to talk to in French, because maybe—I don't know, maybe you have different levels of, like, eloquence and refinement in French. I don't know.”

“I wasn't born here. French is my first language.”

“I still want to know French Jean.”

“French Jean is like English Jean, but younger.”

Jeremy opens his mouth to ask what that means, but the people around them have finally had enough—someone younger than both of them wearing a library badge shows up at their table.

“This is the quiet section. If you want to talk, go down to the cafe. There are people who need to study and you're making it impossible.”

“Right,” Jeremy says. “Sorry.”

She waits.

“I think she wants us to leave,” Jean says.

Whoops. Jeremy gathers his things, including the notebook by Jean's hand, and leads the way to the elevators. 

Because Jeremy still has a modicum of common sense, he doesn't burst into laughter until the elevator doors close.

“Holy shit. I can't believe we just got kicked out of the library.”

“Uncomfortable. I come here every day.”

“You do? You're such a _nerd_ , Jesus. You're probably the only athlete at USC who knows how to use, like, JSTOR and shit. Do you think you'll ever be allowed back here or are you, like, permanently blacklisted?”

“I know the head librarian,” Jean says. “I think I will be fine.”

“Can you explain why you were so annoyed by the concept of me taking French?”

Jean pauses. “I don't know.”

“Don't you?”

“You are a good friend,” Jean says, weaving his way through a post-dinner crowd near one of the dining halls. “Sometimes too good.”

“I don't follow.”

Jean sighs. “You never do.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I—the last time I taught someone French—I mean that the last person I helped with French was Kevin Day.” 

And they don't even talk anymore. Worse, Kevin left Jean in the Nest. Jean told Jeremy everything, and he still couldn't bring himself to tell him about Kevin. 

“I'm not Kevin,” Jeremy says. 

“Believe me,” Jean says, “I know exactly who you are.” 

“You don't have to help me if it's too hard,” Jeremy says. “I can just look it up. Or ask Mo. He's Tunisian, he can probably handle some basic French, right?”

“It is not too hard. I told you. I am much less fragile than you think I am.”

“I don't think you're fragile.”

“Yes, you do.” Jean is leading him, Jeremy realizes, to the student rec center. Where all the clubs meet. Jeremy doesn't think he's been here since the activity fair his freshman year. “I understand why. But I am not fragile.”

“Now you're the one who doesn't follow,” Jeremy says. “If I thought you were fragile, I wouldn't have wanted you on the team. This is exy. There's no room for weakness or—fuck ups. If I thought you were going to break, I would've told Kevin to fuck off.” 

“You didn't even know me then,” Jean says, swiping his ID to get them into the rec center and then surveying the ground floor for a spot to work. “That was pure heart-of-gold Jeremy Knox and you know it.”

“Maybe at first it was—maybe I did feel bad for you, and I did consider the obvious advantage in having you in our squad even if you couldn't play. But I know you now, and I know if you didn't have—nerves of fucking steel—I mean, there's no way you would've gotten this far. With the team, or in the sport, or even just—being friends with me.”

“You do not make it difficult.”

“I just don't want to make it harder than it needs to be.”

Jean twists suddenly to look at Jeremy. “Don't you?”

“I really don't. I told you. I want this whole—process. Even after I leave. I want it to be as easy as possible. It's not because I think you're fragile. It's because you've been through a lot, and I don't think you need to go through a lot more just to prove you're capable of playing a fucking sport.”

“Right,” Jean says. “Well. Thank you.” 

Jeremy grins. “You're welcome. Hey, do you think we'll ever get to a point where every conversation we have isn't a treatise on our relationship?”

“If you stop worrying about hurting my feelings, maybe.”

“Oh, so no?”

“No wonder you sleep like a baby,” Jean says. “You just completely exhaust yourself overthinking everything all day.” 

“Hey, what works works.” 

“Is it working?” Jean sits down finally at a group of tables accompanied by huge cushy chairs. Jeremy has never seen them before in his life.

“Yup.” Jeremy hands over his notebook. “So—help?”

*

Practice with the Trojans is incredible. Jeremy doesn't feel at home anywhere the way he does in this court, at practice, with these people. Not anymore, not since he sold his grandmother's house and moved to L.A.

He doesn't know what he'll do without them. It's its own kind of loss, he thinks, setting up for a scrimmage. They have three rounds, semifinals, and—if all goes to plan—finals. Then Laila will be captain, and Jeremy will be a rookie at the Houston Lightyears fifteen hundred miles away.

“Are you listening to what I'm saying at all?” Alvarez says.

Jeremy blinks himself back into the present. “Yes. Sorry. You want to work on more offensive maneuvers?”

“I just feel like if we're dominating anyway, I can put more goals on the board for us, right?” She puts a cone down. “I just don't want to limit the team just because I'm the dealer on the court.”

“I think that's a good idea, actually. Why don't you train with the strikers today? Maybe we can do, like, a crash course or whatever.”

“Right, like, I'm not necessarily saying I'd be ready for Northwestern, but I definitely could make it happen for UNL, especially since we're playing them here. Like if we're going to dominate, let's dominate, right?”

The court doors open and a few more Trojans walk in, among them Laila. Alvarez steps delicately away when Laila reaches Jeremy, taking her place with some of the other strikers.

“What's the deal with y'all?” Jeremy asks Laila. “Are you still fighting, have you broken up, what's going on?”

“I don't know,” Laila says. “I just feel like—maybe the timing's off, I don't know. If we'd met, like, ten years down the line—or even five, like, when we're a little more settled, you know?”

“If there's anything I know, it's that you just can't force the timing,” Jeremy says. “I don't know if convenience should be the thing that keeps you away from your soulmate, but also, like—” He looks out at where Alvarez is warming up between Benji and Katie. Alvarez and Laila have been together practically since Alvarez started here. He can't really picture a future where they aren't a couple. “I don't know. Your college girlfriend doesn't have to be the person you end up with.”

Laila sighs. “You said it, right? It's better for a captain not be involved with someone on their team.”

“You know that isn't what I meant.” 

“I know, but I just—I don't know.”

“I probably missed out on, like, some really good sex, though,” Jeremy says. “Right? Like I could've been—remember Bryan? He was super hot.”

“I can't believe you've really never hooked up with a Trojan. You're so pure.”

That elicits a laugh from Jeremy, who definitely does not think of himself as pure. “Just because I think it's messy to sleep with your teammates and especially unethical to do it if you're the captain, doesn't mean I'm not fucking other people.”

“I mean, yeah, the lax bro, your soccer player a couple years ago, Peter the swimmer—”

“Do you keep a Jeremy Knox Sex Diary, Abdul?”

“That would be so boring, it, like, wouldn't even be worth the paper it was written on.”

“That's so rude,” Jeremy says. “Like, seriously, I can't believe that you, my subordinate, could say something so—”

Laila shoves his shoulder lightly, laughing. “I hate when you do that. Just, like, make me laugh while I'm trying to be miserable. I can't believe you're leaving.” 

“Not til we win,” Jeremy says. “I'll fail a class if I have to, seriously—”

“You won't have to,” Laila says, visibly steeling herself. “We're going to win.”

*

The Trojans' first championship game is against Northwestern. Jeremy texts Palmer a picture of their plane landing in Chicago and receives an emoji response.

“Okay, guys,” Jeremy says on their bus to the court. “Northwestern aren't even close to our biggest challenge this round. We just need to go in, do our thing, and get out.”

It's a standard Trojan full halves win. The fact that they even get to call it standard now is incredible to Jeremy, gets his heart racing even when he thinks about it hours later in their dinky airport-adjacent hotel in the suburbs while Jean sleeps soundly six feet away. They're really going to do this thing. 

Jeremy can't sleep like this. He sits up, rubs at his eyes with the heel of his fist. It's two in the morning. Only midnight in California, though—maybe this is just jet lag. Or excess adrenaline. Lactic acid. Something.

Jeremy digs through his bag for a t-shirt, tugs it on, and wanders out of his hotel room. This late on a Thursday night, it's silent in the hallway. If he had the clothes for it, he'd go to a bar or something. As it is, his only real options are this hotel and, like, Ubering to a 24-hour Wal-Mart. 

Because he has nothing better to do, Jeremy gets in the elevator. According to a sign in there, the hotel has a lounge on the second floor and a gym and pool in the basement. He could do with a workout. 

He should really be too tired for it, but he goes down to the pool anyway. He remembers all those anxiety-fueled extra runs he went on his freshman year at USC. He doesn't love doing his cardio solo, even now, but sometimes it's nice to get some alone time. Just be a body moving, no goals, no one around to complicate things.

Technically, the basketball shorts he's wearing aren't swim trunks. But technically, no one's here to see. Jeremy scrubs a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath, and slips into the water.

He always misses swimming during the season. There's never any time to go to the beach, and he never thinks of going to any of USC's pools instead of riding his bike for cardio. Pools always feel like injury rehab to him. Maybe that's why Jean is so accustomed to them. 

It's an easy swim—a lap freestyle across the small pool, another the opposite direction in a belabored backstroke. It isn't his fault he's not great at a backstroke. Most of his swimming happens in the ocean, and who's swimming backstroke laps in the ocean?

The pool is too small to really get into it. Jeremy resurfaces near the t-shirt and phone he dropped at the edge, wishing he had waterproof headphones or something. There's no one here to be annoyed with his music, but it might get distorted when his ears are underwater. 

He turns on his go-to cardio playlist anyway, a bunch of moody gay pop songs that help him power through long bike rides. Underwater, it all sounds murky, quieter than it should be, like he's very far away.

*

They play a full game against UNL. Jeremy keeps thinking about Palmer calling it disrespectful, but they're the never-lost-at-home USC Trojans hosting barely-made-it-into-championships UNL Huskers. It's not like there's a risk of losing.

Then they host Notre Dame. They're a little better matched to USC, so the Trojans revert to their typical strategy of dominating during the first half and sitting back to defend and counterattack during the second. 

They only need two out of three to progress to the next round, but it doesn't matter. They win all of them. 

Jeremy can feel the championship coming in his gut. They're going to take it. They're going to win.

*

Rheman's text has Jeremy in Rheman's office half an hour before morning practice, grinding his teeth and glaring at Rheman's computer screen.

“Just released from the NCAA,” Rheman says, handing Jeremy a coffee. “I don't know what you want to do about it.”

“We've never played them before semifinals,” Jeremy says. “But they're not the team they were.”

“You know that's not what I'm worried about,” Rheman says. “How is Moreau going to take it?”

The next team the Trojans will face is UT away. Then Binghamton at home. Duke at home. 

Then Edgar Allan away.

“I don't know, Coach.”

“It's your job to figure it out.”

“He's not—the way he was,” Jeremy says. Didn't he and Jean just have this conversation? “He's doing really well here. I think the sun has been good for him.”

“There's no sun in that batcave they call a court,” Rheman says. “I'm going to check in with him, but I wanted to let you get a head start on this. It'll be announced in a few hours.”

“Thanks. I'll see what I can do.”

“Jeremy.”

Jeremy looks away from the computer, meets Rheman's gaze. There's something unfathomable there.

“What is it?” Rheman asks. “Last I checked, you weren't the victim of years of trauma there.”

“I know,” Jeremy says. “I—” He looks back at the screen. Black and white words on a white background. “I told you last summer. I can't believe this thing I've—I mean, I've put my whole life into exy, and here, right at the—like, honestly right at the fucking heart of it, there's this mess. The person who created the sport is just, like, pure fucking evil. And we've never beaten them.”

“Tetsuji Moriyama isn't the only person credited with the creation of this sport,” Rheman reminds him. “And he's not at Edgar Allan anymore.”

“You think we'll win this time?”

“Just against the Ravens, or the whole thing?”

“Coach—”

“Because we don't have to beat the Ravens to make it to semifinals,” Rheman says. “We just have to win the other games with high enough scores.”

“I don't think we win championships without beating them,” Jeremy says. “We need to get over that mental block. It'll make us better.”

Rheman smiles, small and fierce. “I'm going to miss having you around, Knox.”

Jeremy doesn't know how to voice that he's going to miss being here, too. Rheman isn't his first coach, but he's the one Jeremy's known the longest and definitely the one who knows him best. He doesn't say what he's thinking, which is that ever since his grandmother died, Rheman has been the closest thing to—

“I know,” Jeremy says. “I'm going to miss you, too.”

“I'll just be a phone call away.”

“It's not the same.”

Rheman sighs. “I know.” He stands up. “You know if it doesn't work out in Houston, you can always come back here, right?”

“We're not there yet,” Jeremy says. “I'm not leaving 'til I win.”

“That's the spirit.”

*

Jean does not take the news well.

That morning's practice is meant to be tactics-planning mostly, but Jean has been silent since Jeremy told him about this when Jean got here from the pool twenty minutes ago. Other Trojans keep chiming in—who they can pull off full games or halves against, who they probably can't, how to challenge the Ravens when they eventually get there—but Jean is rigid between Theo and Laila, staring blankly into the middle distance and clenching and unclenching a fist on the table. Jeremy can't imagine what Jean is reliving right now. 

“Duke we can definitely do full halves against at least,” Rogelio is saying through a bite of his bacon egg and cheese. “Because—I mean, seriously, they shouldn't even have gotten past the last round—”

“They had to beat the Ravens and the Foxes to even qualify for championships,” Dev says. “I don't think we should underestimate them. Full halves at most.”

“I do think that the more we play like this—just, like totally overdoing it—the better we'll be when we get to the really tough teams,” Jeremy says, not taking his eyes off of Jean. “Like—it's building up our stamina, obviously, but it's also taking us to the next level competitively because we've been fighting each other for spots all season. This is where that's really going to start to shine. I say we give full halves a shot against Duke, especially if we're already up there in standings.”

“I'm with Jeremy,” Laila says, launching into an in depth discussion of UT's season thus far.

They break to get coffee and breakfast refills, and Jean bolts out of the room. Jeremy meets Rheman's eyes, nods, and follows Jean out.

It takes Jeremy a while—Jean moves fast when he wants to—but eventually he finds Jean in the court, huddled near the goal and staring at his knotted-together fingers. 

“You knew this might happen,” Jeremy says.

“I know,” Jean says. There's a closed prescription bottle next to his knee. That must be where he went before coming here. “That does not mean—” 

Jeremy waits, but Jean doesn't continue, just twists his fingers more.

“Riko is dead,” Jeremy says. “Tetsuji is long gone. The Nest is a shadow of what it used to be, and there will be tons of security there. Not a single person will be able to hurt you.”

“We play a game where the entire other team's purpose is to hurt me. Those people will take special pleasure in it.” Then, desperately: “I don't want to go back there.”

“Then sit out,” Jeremy says. “If you can't do it, don't.”

“I didn't say I can't.”

“There are referees,” Jeremy reminds him. “Anyone who touches you is going to be punished according to the laws of the game. I know they haven't served you well off the court, but on it, without Tetsuji Moriyama's influence, they're clean.”

Jean's voice drops. His eyes do, too. “Their racquets will not be their only weapons.”

“Your racquet won't be yours, either. There are five other players on that court who have your back at all times. Including me.”

Jean looks up at him. Jeremy can't read the expression on his face. 

“You said this works for you,” Jeremy says. “The reasons why what you're feeling is irrational.”

Jean untwists his fingers, holds out his hands in front of him and examines his scarred fingers. “Look,” he says. “What happened the last time I was there.”

“I remember.”

“I thought I was going to die there,” Jean says. “Even now—if they called, I can't say what I would—” He stops, runs both hands over his face. “You cannot know—unless you have seen your own impending death as inevitable, you cannot know how it—haunts you.”

“I can't,” Jeremy says. “But you didn't die there, and you're not going to.” He holds out a hand. “We're going to get in there, play for two hours, and then get the hell out as fast as we can. And you're going to tell me if you can't handle it, because we have other backliners.”

“And you do not want to risk our losing because I lose it?”

“No, I don't want to risk losing you,” Jeremy says, meeting Jean's gaze. “Let's go. We're late.” 

Jean takes his hand and lets himself be hauled up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do think it's funny that i spent like 3 chapters on thanksgiving weekend and then zipped through like two months in 4000 words lmao
> 
> come talk to me on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com). please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	12. injury

After a cursory win away at UT (three hours and fifteen minutes between L.A. and Austin, plus or minus time differences depending on the direction; Jeremy tries not to overthink it), the Trojans host the Binghamton Bearcats. 

It's a grind. They always knew it was going to be a grind. For most of the Trojans, it's the last full game they have planned before semifinals. The Bearcats are one of those stressful teams that, upon finding its attack neutered, just tries to check its way into overtime and pens. It's not an ineffective strategy, but Jesus, it's annoying to watch. Jeremy would know. In the last two weeks, he's mainlined every Binghamton game this season and their championship games from last year. 

Seventy-three minutes in, the referee's whistle blows. Jeremy whirls around, searching for the issue;it's been seventy-three of the most boring minutes of exy he's ever played. A scuffle would be welcome at this point.

But no—Jeremy realizes, his heart stuttering—no, the ref is signaling an injury. A Binghamton striker has both her hands raised in professed innocence, but they're miles away from the ball and she had no reason to be anywhere near the Trojan defense. There's someone on the floor. There's a Trojan on the floor.

A moment later: it's _Jean_ on the floor.

Jeremy doesn't know how he crosses the court, only that he does it in silence. The crowd has stopped breathing. Not a single player makes a noise. The ref's mouth is moving, but nothing comes out.

He reaches Jean, whose eyes are squeezed shut. Both his hands are pressed against his upper thigh. Jeremy drops down next to him, grasps one of Jean's wrists. 

Jean's eyes open. The sound in the court comes back all at once, a rush of screams and talk and a commentator saying, _That's USC number twenty-nine, Jean Moreau, looks like a nasty one_.

“What happened?” Jeremy says. His voice sounds more panicked than it should, which gets Jean's attention. “Are you okay?”

Jean sits up, wincing. “Yes. I think I—yes, I can go on.”

“What? No, Bobbie needs to take a look, Ro's warming up already—”

“You said a full game.”

“It's been seventy-three minutes,” Jeremy says. “I'm sure it'll be fine. No one else plays these kinds of—are you going to tell me what happened?”

“We were just pushing each other around, I made an awkward movement, she took advantage, I fell.”

“I swear I didn't mean to,” the striker by Jeremy's elbow says. Somehow he managed to completely forget there were other people present. “When he went down I called the ref. It wasn't—it wasn't deliberate at all, seriously.”

She's a freshman, Jeremy realizes. She must be. A freshman striker they chucked on at the end of a probable loss. She has no idea what she's doing.

“I can still play.” Jean clutches Jeremy's arm to drag himself up. “I think I—” He tests his leg, wincing. “Only a pulled muscle. Tell him.” 

“Knox, I'll leave it up to you,” the referee says, waving Bobbie onto the court. “You calling for a change?”

“You can't play with a pulled groin muscle,” Jeremy tells Jean. “Are you kidding?”

“No. I have played with worse.”

Jeremy feels a kernel of that familiar dizzying Riko Moriyama rage around his diaphragm. He says, “Yeah, he's swapping out. Can we get a stretcher?”

“I do not need—”

“I don't need you aggravating it and missing games we haven't already won,” Jeremy interrupts. “Can you let me captain my team, please?”

Jean's mouth shuts. Bobbie and her team of medics stretcher him off the court, and Jean doesn't look back.

Rogelio comes on. Jeremy gets back into position. Play restarts.

They were seven-three up before stoppage. By the end of the game, they're at eleven-three. Katie's arms come to wrap around Jeremy as the final whistle goes off, and he looks up at the score, trying to figure out how it happened, if terror and anger and adrenaline really carried him through four goal-scoring plays in seventeen minutes. 

Other Trojans are hugging him. 

“We won,” someone is saying in his ear. Laila. “Look like it.”

“Is Jean okay?” Jeremy says. 

“He's fine,” Jean himself says, hobbling toward them all on crutches. Somehow he's managed to shower and get dressed in the last twenty minutes despite injury. Jeremy suspects interference on Bobbie's part. “I was right. Pulled muscle.”

“Then I was right, and you couldn't finish the game.” Jeremy looks Jean up and down. There doesn't seem to be anything else wrong with him. “What's the prognosis?”

“That I'm fine.”

“Are you playing against Duke in two weeks?” Laila asks. She doesn't voice the real question, which is: will you play against the Ravens two weeks after that?

“Of course.”

Jeremy raises his eyebrow. “What will Bobbie say if I ask her?”

Jean glowers at him. “I could have played on.”

“You're on fucking crutches, Jean.”

Jean opens his mouth, but he's interrupted by the striker who injured him coming up to apologize. He clacks a crutch against her racquet, which would be adorable if Jeremy weren't still annoyed. 

“Who do you want on press?” Laila says. “I can do it, but I didn't have much to do.”

It's true: Cas started to give her a break, and Laila came on in the second half to shut down the goal. One of only two swaps.

“Uh—” Jeremy looks around, spots Rogelio hovering nearby, mid-conversation with Alvarez in brisk Spanish. He's complaining about Jeremy, but it's lighthearted. At least Jeremy hopes it is. “Ro, you can do it. Talk about how you're looking forward to putting yourself on display against Duke after spring break.” 

“Good call,” Rogelio says. “Maybe I can actually end up signed somewhere decent, right?”

“Try not to come off so—” Alvarez waves a hand in the air. “Happy. That your teammate is injured.”

Rogelio laughs. “Of course not. Let's get in there, Knox.” Then, a little quieter when they've left the clutch of Trojans: “Thanks. You could've just had Theo up here with you.”

“I told you to trust me,” Jeremy replies.

“No you didn't. You told me the Trojans could survive without me.”

It startles a laugh out of Jeremy. “Yeah, for one practice. Not, like, permanently. Although, I mean, we probably could.”

“You also told me to hit you,” Rogelio says. “What if I had? Would you have hit me back?”

“I don't know. I definitely wanted to fight you, but I don't know if I—” But then, at Rogelio's skeptical expression: “I mean, no, yeah, I definitely would've hit you back, but you could probably beat me up, so don't worry, you would've been fine.”

Rogelio snorts. “At least you know your faults. You ready?”

Jeremy looks up at the pit of reporters ready to interrogate them. This is easy when they win. He grins at Rogelio. “Always.”

*

Jean skips the party, a fact Jeremy doesn't discover until he's crowded on Pilar's bed with half the rest of the team looking at ugly pictures of themselves some photographer posted on ESPN-E's Twitter.

“Poor Jean,” Shereen says, zooming into a photo of him grimacing as he checks someone. “This one is pretty bad. Where's he at, Jeremy?”

“Oh, I thought—” Jeremy says, looking around; but of course Jean can't be here. If he were, Jeremy would've noticed him already. In his defense, there are like twenty-five people in this dorm room. “I think he's still in our room.” He disentangles himself from his teammates. “Let me see if I can convince him to come out.”

“You don't have to—” someone says, but they probably know better than to try and stop him. 

Jean is lying on his bed, elevating his injury and watching a movie on his laptop. He barely looks up when Jeremy comes in.

“Not in the mood to party?” Jeremy asks. 

Jean's head swivels. “I can't drink,” he says. “I can barely stand. I am not in the mood to party.”

“The Trojans used to have a little, like, mini-ritual when someone gets injured during a game,” Jeremy says, opening a bottle of water and chugging half of it. “We used to basically drop you in a desk chair, lift you up, and sing about how it's too soon for you to die or 'He's a Jolly Good Fellow' or something.”

“That sounds unsafe.”

Jeremy shrugs. “That's why we stopped. But sometimes you have to let loose, right? Hey, for real, what did Bobbie say about playtime?”

Jean huffs, or maybe sighs. “No activity for a week. She will reevaluate next Saturday, but she wants me to sit out against Duke, too.”

“And you probably hate that.”

“I have played through much worse.”

“I know,” Jeremy says. “You've told me. Remember?”

“It worked,” Jean says. “Appealing to your bleeding heart gave me an edge.”

“Still. Dirty trick.”

Jean lifts an eyebrow. “It was true, though. I have played through worse.”

“I know. I know, I just—I know you're used to having to play through injury. I thought you'd know by now—” Jeremy runs a hand through his hair, rubbing at the shorter bits in the back. He needs a haircut, he remembers. “That's not the way we operate here.”

“I know my body better than you do.”

“Yeah, I don't think—I agree with you. But I also think you don't know when to stop.”

“I can play.”

“The metric isn't being able to play, it's being able to play at capacity without increased risk of injury. And you know you're not there right now.”

“You always—” Jean says, then cuts himself off, frustration obvious on his face.

Jeremy gets it anyway. “I know. That's my job.”

“Go back to your party,” Jean says. “I know you came to get me. I'm not coming.”

“I don't want you to like, sit here, just, like, stewing in your misery.”

“I am not stewing,” Jean says, voice an edge too sharp. “I'm watching a movie and icing my groin. Do you think I need your help with that too, or can I maybe manage it on my own?”

It's silent for a moment, Jeremy reeling in his instinctive reaction to that—an apology wrapped in hurt—while Jean looks anywhere but at him. 

“That's not fair,” Jeremy says. He didn't panic and sprint across the court to help Jean. He did it because he was terribly, desperately _worried_. He's not even here to help Jean. He's just checking in. Which is his job, both as Jean's captain and as his friend. 

“I know,” Jean says. “I'm sorry.” A pause, then: “Can you please just go?”

Jeremy stands there uselessly. The last thing he wants to do right now is go back to the party. He wishes again that he knew anyone on this campus who wasn't a fucking athlete.

“Okay,” Jeremy says. “I'll be back in a couple hours?”

“Yes. Sure. See you.”

Jeremy goes.

*

It's not really hot enough to swim yet, but they have a couple of days off practice for spring break, so Jeremy takes his bike down to the beach anyway.

To get to the beach in Houston, you have to drive an hour out of the city. It's almost a three hour bike ride. Getting here took over an hour, and fifteen miles in each direction is pretty close to Jeremy's upper limit, especially since he'll be in the middle of his first professional season.

That means Jeremy's days with the ocean are numbered.

It's weird. He didn't grow up on a coast. There are lakes in Arizona, but otherwise it's landlocked. Yet here he is, perched on a sea rock formation, mulling his impending lack of beach time. 

Of course, they'll have away games and breaks and vacations. He'll be able to come back to L.A. when he wants, spend weeks on the beach in Hawaii, even go see what the Atlantic Ocean is like if he really wants to. 

Still. It's this beach, right here, right now, high tide Pacific Ocean, that he'll never be able to get back. He's never going to step on this sand again, never going to track high and low tide, never going to get dragged into a volleyball game with some beautiful strangers—

It's unproductive. Jeremy knows that. Everyone has to leave college eventually. It doesn't make sense that he's so stressed about it.

His phone vibrates, and it takes Jeremy too long to recognize the sensation: someone is calling him. 

“Jean,” Jeremy says in lieu of a real greeting. “What's up? How's the groin?”

“You left early this morning,” Jean replies. “I'm used to being the one who sneaks out first.”

“I'm at the beach,” Jeremy says, watching a crab scuttle past his foot. It smells nice here. He'll never get that in Houston. He wishes he could bottle it. “Spring break, right?”

“No one starts spring break at nine a.m.,” Jean says. Jeremy thinks Jean might be on the verge of laughing; it's something in his tone, light, breakable. “I thought maybe you—” A pause, then: “I was rude last night.”

“What, did you think I applied for a room change because you were hurt and tired and made one slightly mean comment?” Jeremy says, a little nonplussed. “Come on. I'm insensitive all the time.”

On the other end of the call, Jean lets out a rush of air all at once. “No. I thought you decided to hold practice without telling me about it.”

Jeremy has to laugh. “You have a one track mind.”

“How long are you planning to be at the beach?”

“I don't know,” Jeremy says. “I didn't really plan past getting here. I don't even have food.”

“If I bring you a bag of chips, will you let me drive you home?”

“It's too cold to swim.”

“I can't swim anyway,” Jean says. “Doctor's orders. But I can bring ice to the beach.”

“Are you still supposed to be on crutches?”

“No. Bobbie wanted me to use them as a protective measure, but my x-ray results say they are unnecessary unless I'm walking long distances.”

Jeremy turns, gauges the distance between his rocks and the nearest parking spot.

“I think Dev has the team cooler. You could store the ice in that.”

“Okay,” Jean says. “Send me a pin.”

Jeremy sends him the pin.

*

Jean gets there too soon afterward. Jeremy watches him park suspiciously.

“I don't remember you being, like, a complete speed demon,” Jeremy says, helping Jean onto his rock. Jean is wearing his ridiculous oversized sunglasses again. It's easy to forget that Jean is sort of into fashion considering how often Jeremy sees him in exy gear or Trojan paraphernalia. “I feel like you drove pretty normally when I was in your car.”

“Forgive me for not going ninety when you were panicking about lane switches,” Jean says, eyebrow raised. “Would you have preferred a shorter trip?”

“Absolutely not. You made the exact right call.”

Jean stretches out next to Jeremy and presses an ice pack against his injury. “What made you come here? If you were not upset.”

“I don't know,” Jeremy says. He watches waves crash against the sand as the tide starts to creep back. “Did you know to get to the beach from Houston, you have to drive an hour?”

“That isn't bad. I expected four hours at least.” A brief pause, and then: “I have to admit, I am nowhere near an expert on Texas geography.”

Jeremy huffs out a laugh. “I just feel like—I'm moving out there so soon after commencement. I won't get to just go to the beach on a whim anymore.”

“You grew up in Arizona. There is no beach there.”

“Yeah, but once you get used to being on a coast, it's hard to go back. I just really love the ocean. You grew up, like, practically in the sea, right? You must get that.”

“West Virginia is landlocked, but sometimes in the summer we went out to Virginia Beach. Not as a team, just—just the perfect court. He liked the beach. So does Kevin.”

It's not what Jeremy expected him to say. It's strange to consider a version of Riko that is vicious and violent but also makes allowances like this, also likes the beach. He remembers Jean's comment about rubbing salt in a wound. 

“Me too,” Jeremy says, leaning back next to him. The sky is bright blue, clear, seagulls cheerfully diving past them. “I just feel like I'm really going to miss L.A. Like, I love it here. I really just like—I don't know. I just love it here.”

Jean doesn't say anything, but Jeremy doesn't need him to. His mind has wandered back to Rheman. Even Oliver didn't know about Jeremy's grandmother, but Rheman did. Take all the time you need, Rheman told him over and over. The Trojans have your back. 

It's weird to have to create a home and a family from scratch and then, at the end of five years, be obligated to leave them behind. Maybe he should've put more effort into staying in L.A. Done anything to make it work. Took a coaching job with the Trojans or even the Bruins if the L.A. major league teams wouldn't have him. 

He can't keep dwelling on this. His future is set in stone. He can come visit L.A. whenever he wants. 

Jeremy turns a little, toward Jean. “Hey, what you were watching last night?” he asks, more because he wants a distraction than anything else. “I still feel like I, like, barely know anything about you. You say you're into movies, but are you into, like, blockbuster bullshit? What's the deal?”

Jean looks surprised. “I thought you recognized it. Moonlight? It's the best.”

“Oh,” Jeremy says. “No, I haven't seen it. I don't really watch that many movies, you know? Like, sometimes the team'll go see a blockbuster or something, and our old captain Oliver used to do team movie nights with, like, indie stuff—that's how I saw Fargo—but mostly they're not really my thing.”

“You should see it anyway,” Jean says. “There are so few films you really see yourself in sometimes. Moonlight is like watching the inside of my head.”

“I thought it was about, like, gay kids in Miami.”

“Basically, yes, but it is not just that. I can't really describe it. You should just watch it. I have it, if you want to—maybe tomorrow?”

“I can't.” Jeremy scrubs a hand over his face and immediately regrets it when he has to blink sand out of his eyes. “I have to take shots for Nike tomorrow. Isn't that weird? Right now I can't accept a cent, but in, like, three months, Nike will blow my face up for billboards and I'll just like—be rich. Isn't that just like—yeah, like, weird?”

Jean, who used to play for a team that was sponsored by giant brands, raises an eyebrow. Again. “You say that like it's a bad thing.”

“It's not bad, it's just weird. Like, you don't think it'd be weird if you were driving down the freeway and you saw, like, my ass on a huge billboard?”

“I would probably crash the car,” Jean says, which surprises Jeremy into laughing.

“Uncalled for,” Jeremy says. “Seriously. No one's ever made that joke back at me.”

“Your sense of humor is so twisted.”

“You're the one who made the joke!” 

“Who says it was a joke? I would see your disembodied ass, immediately recognize it as yours, and then drive off the side of the—stop laughing, I'm serious.”

“It wouldn't be disembodied! What's the point of paying me if it's disembodied?”

“You made it sound disembodied!”

Jeremy snorts. “You'd really recognize my disembodied butt? How often are you staring at it?”

Jean bumps his shoulder against Jeremy's. “It's distinctive. What are you modeling?”

It's a subject-change, and not a very subtle one, but Jeremy knows they were heading into dangerous territory. “Just exy stuff. Nike armor, sneakers. Maybe a racquet. That kind of thing.”

“Exciting.”

“I mean, yeah, it's not as sexy as a luxury car, but we all need to make money somehow, right?” Above them, a single cloud is rolling across the sky. “Coach helped me find an agent and he just, like, immediately was like 'okay, we're getting you Nike, Gatorade, Swatch'—I was like, shouldn't we wait til I'm famous? And he told me the early bird gets the worm, so—” Jeremy shrugs. “Better now than in a few months when I'd have to fly to get to L.A., right?” It's a three and a half hour flight. That's not bad. The flight to Austin a couple weeks ago wasn't bad. “You want to go get lunch? There's an outdoor cafe that makes really good crab cakes.”

“Is the crab fresh?” Jean asks, which makes Jeremy roll his eyes.

“I don't know, are you asking if, like, they pulled it out of the ocean this morning? 'Cause I can't answer that.”

As it turns out, the restaurant's crab is farmed somewhere in the Pacific not more than a few days prior to being cooked. The waiter informs them of this after Jean asks him, which has Jeremy trying not to laugh in both their faces.

“He is definitely going to spit in your food,” Jeremy says, shredding some of his free bread and tossing it to a nearby seagull.

“You are going to get us attacked by an entire flock,” Jean says, but he steals some of the bread off Jeremy's plate to feed his own gull. 

He still has his huge sunglasses on, and he's almost smiling, which is about as close to a relaxed expression as he ever gets. It makes Jeremy smile, too, a little helplessly.

“What?” Jean says, looking back at him.

“Nothing,” Jeremy says. “I don't know. You just look, like, at peace here.”

Jean breaks apart more bread to toss to the birds. They're starting to draw a crowd now; Jeremy is sure the waiter is going to yell at them. “I've told you. I love the beach.”

“Is this your first time at a west coast beach?”

“Tragically.” The sunglasses make Jean even more unreadable than usual, but Jeremy thinks this is a little self-aware, a little jokey. “But the season is almost over, and you promised me a bike ride.”

“You got it, Moreau. All the bike rides and beach trips your little heart desires.”

“I have to warn you, I'm not amazing on a bike. You will probably get annoyed waiting around for me.”

“Actually, I think seeing you do something you're not good at will be super endearing, or at least kind of hilarious, and while I can't promise I won't take a million videos, I'll make sure not to leave you behind.” Jeremy grins as a seagull pecks at his sneaker. “Besides, we can start small. Are you still on training wheels, or—?”

Jean laughs. Their waiter drops off their dishes, shoos away the birds, and tells them to enjoy their meals. Jeremy says, “Yeah, he definitely spit in your food.”

It's nice. Even though Jean is injured and Jeremy is just always anxious now, it's nice.

*

Jean's is not the first injury of the season. Jeremy missed the Trojans' second game, Ro had to rehab his knee for a few games in October, and then Katie was out all December with an ACL issue.

Still. Jeremy doesn't realize how accustomed he's gotten to Theo and Jean's solidity at his back until Rogelio starts in Jean's place and immediately gives away the ball. 

He recovers it quickly—Ro is good, Jeremy reminds himself, and he needs to have faith—and passes to the front.

Dev was right about Duke. In order to qualify for championships, they had to come in third in the southeast, which has become the hardest division in the country since the Ravens switched to it last year. They beat the Ravens in September and the Foxes at the end of the fall season. 

But the Ravens were still reorganizing then, and the Foxes had already qualified and chosen to field an inexperienced starting line up to start prepping them for championships. The Trojans are at their best and have everything to play for. To say it doesn't go well for the Blue Devils is an understatement. 

“We're through,” Rheman says when Jeremy reaches him in the post-match festivities. “I told you. We don't have to beat Edgar Allan to qualify.”

“We're going to anyway,” Jeremy says. “I mean it. We're going to.”

“Don't get distracted.”

Jeremy flashes him a smile as Jean and the subs make it onto the court. Jean is in standard issue Trojan injury-wear complete with embroidered red tie, but it looks different on him somehow. 

“I never get distracted, Coach. You know that.”

Rheman sighs. “You're nuts, Knox. Go celebrate.”

Laughing, Jeremy follows orders. The other Trojans pile onto him. Winning streak extended. No team but the Ravens has ever had a streak this long. Something warm blooms in Jeremy's belly. He lets himself get a piggyback from a somehow not exhausted Rogelio, raises his racquet to the Trojan supporters, and drops off Ro's back to do press. 

In two weeks, they play the Ravens.

Jean still has Ravens drills he's keeping to himself. He still has Ravens secrets he hasn't told. Jeremy needs to figure out the line between needling the drills out of Jean and triggering him. 

They have two weeks. It's the Ravens, and then semifinals. 

“Jeremy, you're perfectly set up to play your biggest rivals in two weeks,” a reporter says. “Do you think you'll finally beat Edgar Allan?”

They don't have to win. Rheman is right. They don't have to win. But it's Jeremy's last chance to beat them, and there's some part of him that's convinced that if they don't, they're fucked for the final. The psychological block is too big. Maybe the rest of the Trojans could do it, but Jeremy isn't convinced _he_ could. 

“Absolutely,” Jeremy says, beaming at her. “They're not the team they used to be, obviously. The Foxes have Kevin Day, and we have Jean Moreau. I think this year is our year.”

“Don't you think it's a little gauche to gloat, considering the tragedy at Edgar Allan after finals last year?”

Riko's death is anything but a tragedy. Jeremy doesn't think he's ever really hated anyone in his life; even the kids who bullied him when he was a tiny outcast were people he was trying to be friends with. But Riko? Even though he's been dead for nearly a year, Jeremy hates him. Absolutely hates him. 

“I don't,” Jeremy says. “Riko's death was definitely a tragedy, but we won't be playing against him. We'll be playing the Ravens. And we'll beat them.”

“How will Jean Moreau feel going up against his old team?”

“That's pretty rare in college sports just because there aren't a ton of college transfers,” Jeremy says, trying a smile again. “But the other big name that tried that did it pretty successfully. I think if you look at both our teams, we have to come out on top in terms of talent, organization, and gameplay. No one in the NCAA has our record this year, and I think that's going to suit us really well.”

“And how do you think Moreau will react?”

This time he gets the smile perfect. “I'm really excited for him to show everyone at Edgar Allan what he can do when he's not forced into such a rigid system.” 

“Laila, a question for you. You're set to become the first hijab-wearing captain in college exy, maybe in all college sports. How do you feel about being a role model to young Muslim girls everywhere?”

At Jeremy's left, Laila shifts a little, straightens the hijab in question. “Terrific,” she says, a little dry. “I just hope my hijab won't be the only source of interest when I'm captain of the Trojans next season.”

Jeremy bites back a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost fell asleep rereading this so i may have missed some typos so my usual request that you let me know about any typos goes double for this chapter. also please leave a comment if you enjoyed!


	13. west virginia

A few days after their game against Duke, Jeremy finds Jean at the Trojan Court with a yoga mat. It's not really the image he was expecting, but it's understandable. PT, Jeremy assumes.

“Jean. I've been meaning to talk to you—”

“Ravens drills,” Jean interrupts, stretching his arms over his head. “I expected you to ask me sooner.”

“The last time I asked you to show some of them to me, you didn't take it that well.”

“I did show you some,” Jean replies. “You were the one who did not take it well.”

“That's fair.” Jeremy pauses, playing with his helmet. “What if I asked you to show me more?”

“I can't practice them with you yet.”

“When Bobbie clears you for practice,” Jeremy says. “Will you show me?”

“Of course,” Jean says.

“If you can't—”

“I can.”

“But if it's too hard,” Jeremy says. “I don't want to make you do anything that's going to hurt you.”

“I know.” Jean lies down on the gym floor to stretch his groin. “I know my limits, Knox.”

“I think you know them, I'm just not convinced you care. I mean it. I want to beat the Ravens, but if showing me these drills is going to take you somewhere you don't want to be—”

“Can you just trust me to take care of myself? I told you I know my limits.”

Jeremy smiles. “You tried to play through an injury.”

Jean smiles back, a little vicious. “So did you.” He twists onto his side, switching into some other physical therapy position. “I want to beat them, too. I want—” He looks up at the empty bleachers, stands up. “If you get the balls, I can show you.”

“Without over-exerting yourself. I mean it, I don't want you aggravating it. We're already through to semis, I don't need to play you.”

Jean rolls his eyes. “Fine. I will describe them, and you do them.”

That works for Jeremy, so he drags out their giant bucket of balls and grabs Jean's racquet while he's at it. Jean walks him through a series of Raven passing and shooting drills, and it isn't until twenty minutes later that Jeremy realizes how very detached Jean's voice sounds.

“Jean,” he says, turning a little to get Jean's attention. “You still with me?”

“Extend your arm more,” Jean says.

“Hey.” Jeremy drops the position altogether, waves a hand in front of Jean's face. “Jean.”

“I,” Jean says, and then meets Jeremy's gaze. Startled, Jeremy has to resist taking a step back; he wasn't expecting this wild-eyed gaze, the way Jean is holding his racquet like a life raft. “I could never get this one.”

“What?”

“I broke my arm,” he says. “When I was thirteen. It healed, but I could never—” He waves his arm in the air to demonstrate. It looks straight enough to Jeremy. “I never got this one.”

“How did your arm break?” Jeremy says, careful. _Thirteen_.

“We were just playing,” Jean says. “It was an accident.”

“How many times did you have to say that before you started believing it?”

“I never believed it, I just—” He stops, examines the crook of his arm like something new is going to show up. “The master always talked about how good a backliner I would be if I could do this drill correctly, but I couldn't hold my arm right.”

“You're not holding your arm wrong,” Jeremy says. “It looks like it healed fine from here.”

“You do not understand.” He drops the racquet like it burned him. “I know exactly what you're thinking, and you do not understand.”

“What don't I understand? That someone manipulated you to get you to, like, I don't know, buy into your inadequacy? Because you couldn't perform a stupid passing drill to perfection?”

“You don't understand,” Jean says again. “The doors were not locked, I was in a dorm, I could have left like Kevin did, _I was complicit_ —”

Jeremy's heart skips a beat. If he focuses, he can feel the tremor in his hands. Jean has hinted at this before, but never quite said it out loud, not so that Jeremy knew the extent of it.

“You were not complicit,” Jeremy says. He's not a therapist. He has most of a degree in psychology, which he mostly bullshitted his way through. He's so far out of his depth here. “You were scared. You said it yourself. You thought they owned you.”

Jean grits his teeth and twists away from Jeremy's outstretched hand. 

“I did not _think it_. It was true. It _is_ true. And the life they promise—it doesn't sound bad. Be the best. Play for the best. Go pro. Court. A built in family that will take you when yours was so happy to sell you off. Not that different from everything that comes out of _your_ mouth, is it, Knox?”

It's not the time to defend himself, or explain exactly what is different about Jeremy suggesting Jean find a home in the Trojans and rebuild himself here. Instead, Jeremy decides now is the time to present Jean with all his options.

“You don't have to fly out,” Jeremy says. “No one is going to make you come to Edgar Allan. We can prepare statements for the press, something about respecting your time there and all the resources they put into your development. If you can't do this, then don't. We don't need to win this game, but we need to win the ones after it, and we need you for that.”

Jean is silent for a long time, and then he picks up his discarded racquet and swings it baseball-style at the nearby ball bucket. Balls scatter everywhere, bouncing off each other and ricocheting against the walls. Jeremy enjoys the sight of it for only a moment before turning back to Jean.

“I didn't realize you were prone to outbursts like that,” he says. “No wonder you play exy.”

“Fuck you,” Jean says, stooping to pick up some of the balls. There's something sad about it, watching someone sweep up the mess they've just made without even pausing to take it in. “I hate when you talk like you're so wise and calm. I can see your hands shaking.”

“If you want me to leave, I'll go, and you can clean up this mess by yourself. But I get it.”

“You _don't_.”

“Okay, I don't get this exact scenario, but that doesn't mean I've never been anxious or scared before, and unlike you, I know my limits.”

“You don't get into cars,” Jean says. “That is very different.”

“Why did you lose it as soon as I suggested you stay home? Was it because you know you need to, or is it that you think you don't?”

“I do not need to stay here. I'm going.”

“Then what do you need?”

Jean is quiet again. Then he looks up at Jeremy. “An exit strategy.”

“How's this for an exit strategy? I'll drag you out kicking and screaming, and they can take you back over my dead body.”

It doesn't make Jean laugh, but his expression relaxes a little, maybe edges more toward irritation. Which is fine, because Jeremy wasn't really joking. “Don't say that like you know what it means.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You are a remarkable person, Jeremy,” Jean says. “But my own parents did not fight for me. Why should I believe that you would?”

“I'm not going to have to, because no one's going to touch you, but if they do, there'll be twenty-four pissed off athletes between them and you. Believe me or don't. We'll still do it.”

“Because I'm a Trojan.”

“Yeah.” Jeremy bends to help Jean clean up. “Do you remember last year, when Kevin did that morning show? And Neil Josten got in a fight with Riko to, like, defend Kevin's honor or whatever?”

There is no reply, which Jeremy takes a yes. He continues: “Josten was a freshman, right? They probably barely knew each other then, and he still went to bat for Kevin. Why would you think every single person on this team wouldn't do the same for you? After a whole year?”

Jean tosses a ball against the wall, catches it on the rebound, and does it again. 

“You're a good captain, Knox,” he says finally. “I thought it was all bullshit, did you know that? Before I met you. Kevin always said I was wrong. But now—you really are like this.”

It's not the first time Jeremy has heard that. His press persona might be a touch more careful with word choice, but it's not like he's faking anything. It's not like he's lying. “Is it working?”

“I don't know.” Jean meets Jeremy's gaze. “We'll find out on Friday.”

*

Bobbie clears Jean to play against the Ravens on Monday morning. Monday afternoon, he has a therapy appointment and is fifteen minutes late to practice, as usual. Monday night, he gets in late, barely looks at Jeremy, and goes straight to bed.

Later, he gasps awake and starts to hyperventilate in his bed. Jeremy was expecting this and hasn't been sleeping well anyway, so he's immediately ready with a bottle of water.

“What do you need?” he says.

“The window.”

Jeremy opens the shades. It's too late for there to be much light, but they can see the moon from their window, hanging low and bright. Jeremy pushes the window open as much as he can—others have taken the suicide blockers out, but it's never occurred to him to do it until now—and lets in the fresh air.

“You want to go up to the roof?” Jeremy asks.

“No.” Jean leans forward, buries his face in his hands. “I want to go back to sleep.”

“Want your meds?”

“I took them already.” Jean looks up at him. “Go back to sleep. I'm fine.”

“I don't like leaving you like this.”

“You are not leaving me. We share a room.” Jean kicks off his covers, stretching his legs out in front of him. His voice sounds slower than normal, a little hoarse. “I just need to breathe.”

“Then breathe.”

“Jeremy.”

“Yeah.”

“Everything I told you about—about the Moriyamas and the Ravens, all the—anything mafia-related. You won't share that, right?”

Jeremy blinks. It's about the last thing he expected Jean to say. “Of course not. Captain-Trojan confidentiality, right?”

“With anyone,” Jean continues. “I don't know what—” He stops, forcibly inhaling and exhaling at a normal rate. “Go back to sleep.”

“I wasn't sleeping.”

“Again?”

“It's almost finals. I—always get kind of keyed up this time of year.”

“Try anyway,” Jean says. He curls up on his side, facing Jeremy. “Go to sleep, Knox. You'll be useless tired.”

Jeremy curls up on his side, too. It's not his preferred sleeping position, but it's not like that's been working for him. 

He waits until Jean has fallen back asleep, and then he, too, closes his eyes.

*

Jeremy has never really liked the Ravens' Nest, with its black-painted walls and dim red lighting. It's like a strip club out of a bad horror movie, except instead of strippers it's just all these hollow-eyed exy players dressed all in black like they really are a flock of crows. He can't believe how badly he used to want to be one of them.

But he likes it even less seeing Jean's reaction to it, like he thinks he might never leave. It wouldn't be surprising even if Jean didn't spend half his life being systematically tortured here. The place is like a fucking crypt.

Jean hasn't said a word since he cast a last desperate look at the sky when they came in. He's sitting on a bench in the locker room now, helmet in his hands, a rolled ball of tension. Jeremy has no idea what to say, but the team psych, Roger, traveled with them for precisely this purpose and is sitting next to Jean right now saying something Jeremy can't hear. 

Riko is dead. In the entire time Jeremy has known him, Jean hasn't said that name out loud once. It's like he's half-convinced Riko could still show up at any moment, a bad sleepover game for kids, if you say Riko Moriyama in the mirror three times he'll come back to life and—

“Jeremy, come over here,” Roger the team psych says. He isn't Jean's regular therapist. Jeremy wonders if that has an effect. He likes Roger, but he probably wouldn't want Roger to be the person comforting him right now. 

“Yeah, what's up,” Jeremy says. He's still in only his armor, jersey hanging from his loose grip. “How's the groin, Moreau?”

Jean barely looks at him. “Fine.”

“So you're good to play?”

Roger pats Jean on the back, then winks at Jeremy and stands up. Jeremy replaces him.

“Seriously,” he says. “Are you good to play?”

Instead of replying, Jean turns his helmet over in his hands, staring at the cage and the little number twenty-nine above it. 

“In the Nest, double digits mean you are unimportant,” he says. 

Jeremy remembers Jean spending too long looking at his jerseys when Jeremy gave them to him almost a year ago. Jeremy thought it was an issue with the color or maybe the team name. “You told me it didn't matter what number we gave you.”

“It didn't.”

“Shereen and Alvarez are both starting dealers, and they're numbers ten and seventeen.”

“I thought you were going to say that there are no unimportant players at USC.”

“You already know that,” Jeremy says, putting a hand over the number so the only visible embellishment on the helmet is the Trojan on the side, proud crest, straight nose. “We're a team. That's the whole point.”

“We need to be dressed in five,” Rheman calls. “Girls are coming in for pre-match, get decent.”

“The Moriyamas aren't here,” Jeremy says. “Riko has been dead for months. Tetsuji's not allowed on campus. We just need to get through the game. Ninety minutes plus halftime and showers, and then we get back on the bus and get the fuck out of here. Not even two hours. Can you give me that?”

Jean turns toward Jeremy suddenly, fingers still tight around his helmet. “Two hours, and then we're gone.”

“Don't let them score,” Jeremy says. He's only realizing it now, but he's sure they're going to win. “I don't want this to go to overtime.”

“Promise,” Jean says. Jeremy has never heard that tone in his voice—desperate, terrified, like he's clinging to a ledge—and never wants to hear it again. “Don't let me stay here.”

Jeremy tugs Jean close with a hand around the back of his neck. “I promise.”

He can't tell if Jean believes him. It doesn't matter. He wouldn't leave a single Trojan glove here, let alone one of their players. Let alone Jean.

*

It's a rocky start. The Ravens' taunts clearly get to Jean, which wouldn't be surprising—the Ravens have always been good at the psychological warfare part of exy—except that Jean has let every single opposing player's trash talk bounce right off him all season. Four yellow cards since September. No reds.

But he's shaky for the first ten or so minutes, lets balls loose and loses some of the sharpness that defines his play. Jeremy almost calls a time out to try to get Jean out of his own head, but then he sees Theo foul a Raven who was getting under Jean's skin. Jean perks up despite the conceded penalty, clacking sticks with Theo and then, out of character for him during a game, hugging Theo before play restarts.

Jeremy will have to buy Theo a drink at the bar they're definitely going to later, because this simultaneously solves the problem and infuriates Jeremy enough to be at his most ruthless. He just can't believe that for all those years, Jean had to do this alone. How he functions day to day, how he talks and touches, how he's capable of sometimes just laughing is beyond Jeremy. It should be impossible that Jean still plays exy, still forms relationships with people, still trusts them. 

But Jeremy is always at his best when he's angry, maybe because all the sympathy that stops him from embarrassing weaker teams flies out the window. Laila is a nightmare. Jean and Theo are iron at his back. Alvarez's offense practice is paying off, and her passes connect with Katie and Jeremy much more often than they don't.

The Ravens play dirty. They always have. Jeremy takes more than one nasty hit, gets checked so hard, so many times, that he's dizzy and panting by the end of the first half despite their season's conditioning. But when the whistle blows to signal the end of the half, they're up by three goals.

Something in Jeremy's chest shatters. He's never had a goal lead here before. He feels light on his feet, giddy, on the thin line between wanting it too badly and getting it.

He looks across the court and drops right back down to earth. Jean is staring up at the stands even though he won't be able to make out any faces from down here. Jeremy makes his way toward him and hooks an arm through his to steer him back to the locker room.

“You're done,” Jeremy says. “Unless it's necessary. Ro's replacing you for the second half. You can shower now if you want and go hide out on the bus.”

“No. I want—” Jean disentangles himself from Jeremy to tug off his helmet. “I'll wait on the bench with everyone else. You might need me on at the end.”

“You did good,” Jeremy says. “You—” But he doesn't know how to articulate it, this combination of pride in Jean and defensiveness of him and anger and pity and sheer aching possessiveness, how dare anyone—“We're going to win.”

“You always say that.”

“And I'm always right.” Jeremy finds himself smiling despite all of this, the mess of it. “We're going to win, and then we're going to get on the bus and drive two hours to our hotel, and then we're going to get drunk, okay? What do you need right now? Roger always has candy on him. And take some ibuprofen, seriously, I think you were starting to limp at the end of the half.”

“It's fine,” Jean says, but he obediently digs through his locker for a bottle of pills. There's no hint of the terror from earlier. “I'm fine.”

*

The Ravens mount a comeback in the second half. It's exciting, Jeremy thinks. He finds himself grinning when he gets put on with fifteen minutes to full time and nothing between them. It's almost a clean slate.

Usually Jeremy will score three or four goals a game and assist a few more. He scored three times in the first half. Three times in forty-five minutes. It's not bad.

He beats his own record in the second half. Three in fifteen. Benji leaps onto his back after the third. There is a minute left to full time, and the Trojans are winning. They're really going to do this. Jeremy feels lightheaded with it, with winning against the Ravens at last, at their home court no less, and he doesn't know how to react other than to whoop and leap into the air. He can't get that high—Benji might be a freshman, but he's not small—but it doesn't matter. He's psyched.

The whistle blows forty-five seconds later. The Ravens have lost in their home court. Jeremy doesn't even want to clack racquets, but he does anyway, smiling through it when their new captain tries to break his hand. 

“I think it was about time, right?” he tells the press, still grinning. “And to do it with Jean Moreau behind me was just incredible. To overcome the taunts and insults and boos and create so many attacks in the first half—I mean, what a player, right?”

Then he and Laila walk into the locker room, shower in about thirty seconds, and follow their team back onto the bus. Jeremy slides into the seat next to Jean.

“Told you I'd drag you out,” he says.

“Kicking and screaming, you said,” Jean replies. It's a valiant attempt at normalcy. If his voice sounds all wrong when he says it, well, Jeremy isn't going to point it out.

*

Thanks to what Rheman called over-occupancy but what was actually a suggestion from Jeremy, their hotel room is a two hour drive from Edgar Allan. By the time they get there, their goodwill at finally beating the Ravens has mostly given way to sheer exhaustion at the feat.

They all trickle into Jean and Jeremy's hotel room anyway, apparently determined to only leave Jean alone if he wants to be left alone. No one says a word about how he may or may not feel; instead, Theo mixes drinks and they play music off someone's phone and have kind of a low key night. It's what Jeremy sort of imagined college would be like if he didn't play exy: him and twenty-four of his closest friends listening to someone's lo fi indie playlist and making fun of each other's messy love lives. 

Eventually, everyone else peters out. Theo is last to leave, having manufactured a conversation with Jeremy about Mexican politics while playing some new Mexican rap album he likes. 

Jean is barely paying attention. He hasn't spoken much all night. For most of the Trojans, that's not a huge red flag—he's still terse with most of them even though, true to his word, he is getting better about it. But he's never really this short with Theo, and Jeremy suspects that's the real reason Theo is still here well past one in the morning.

“I think I'm going to call it a night,” Theo says finally. “When's our flight out?”

“We need to be at the airport by ten,” Jeremy says. “That's nine hours from now? Don't oversleep.” Normally he might make a joke about Rheman leaving them there, but given the circumstances, he refrains. “Team breakfast downstairs at eight.”

“Eight.” Theo winces. “Just once, can you guys book our flights at, like, two o'clock?”

“I don't make the calls.”

Theo glances over at Jean, who is lying down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. 

“You good, Moreau?”

“Terrific.” Jean sighs. “See you in the morning, Nowak.”

“Nighty-night.”

They brush their teeth and go through their evening routines in silence. Jeremy probably pretends to sleep for another hour after that. Then he comes clean: “Dude, I know you're awake.”

“How?”

“I don't know, we share a room, obviously I know what you sound like when you're asleep.” Jeremy sits up. “You know what I bet'll help tire you out?”

There's a pause, and then Jean says, “You are very good-looking, but I don't think now is the time—”

Relief washes over Jeremy. “That's so not what I meant. You didn't bring any swimming gear, did you?”

Jean sits up, too. “No. Why? The pool must be closed by now.”

“We're in West Virginia,” Jeremy says. “It's not like this is a tourist hot spot. I bet we can get in with a little creativity.”

Luckily, Rheman always goes with this hotel chain; luckily, all of them are equally bad about securing their indoor pools at night. Jeremy slides his room key between the door and its frame, works it a little, and hears the lock click as it opens. He wiggles his fingers. “See? Magic.”

“You said creativity,” Jean says. He follows Jeremy into the pool room, looks around again like he's surprised a dozen security guards haven't descended upon them yet, and then strips off his sweatshirt and dunks himself into the water.

Jeremy follows him in. It's not really the right kind of pool for Jean's preferred lap swims—it's not very big, and it doesn't go very deep—but Jean goes back and forth anyway, so Jeremy does, too. 

Eventually they stop. Jean sits on the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the water. Jeremy hops up next to him, tossing wet hair out of his face.

“Lucky they had an indoor pool, right?”

“Is this where you've been disappearing to whenever we're away? I thought you exhausted yourself overthinking things.”

“Not enough, apparently. I didn't know you noticed.” Jeremy leans back a little, looks up at the ceiling. “There are some hotels where they just, like, don't have indoor pools, and I've just been, like—wandering the hallways trying to see how tired I can get before the walls start looking concave.” He laughs—this is at least partly a joke—and is pleased when Jean doesn't immediately shut down. He wants to ask Jean something, but he knows it's a bad idea.

Well, that's never stopped him before: “Jean. Riko is dead. What are you so scared of?”

Jean wasn't expecting the question. His expression is a thousand miles away. Or maybe only a hundred. The Trojans are still in West Virginia, after all.

“I,” he says, and then clears his throat. “I never believed it was possible to leave. Not—permanently. I thought—someone would make me stay. Or go back.”

There's a surge of something Jeremy can't place in his chest. “Fuck them. Seriously. I'm, like, not even violent, but I wish—” He forces himself to breathe. “Listen. I wanted to say that—I'm really proud of you for today. You really—” He turns away. He thinks if he keeps looking at Jean he might start to cry. It's not the first time he's wished for a time machine. There are a thousand things he'd undo, the accident, all that rebellion when he thought his grandmother would live forever, and this. Everything to do with the Moriyamas, the trauma, the tattoos, the scars. He wishes he could swoop in and kidnap little Jean Moreau when he first arrived in West Virginia, bring him back to Arizona, make sure no one ever touched him. “I never want you to feel like that again. I know it's hard to believe, but you're safe now. For good.”

“It is not hard to believe.”

Jeremy turns back toward him, questioning. Jean's arm is sticky wet and cool against his skin.

“If anything,” Jean continues, “it is too easy. You make everything seem easy.”

“You told me I overcomplicate everything.”

“That isn't what I meant. You—when you're around, things are easier. This is easier.”

It's rare for Jeremy to find himself at a complete loss for words, but he does right now. He just looks at Jean, wishing Jean were a little less difficult to read. 

For his part, Jean just stares back. Jeremy feels like all his own emotions are just written right there on his face. He's always been an open book to the people who know him. 

They've been maintaining eye contact for too long. Jean is basically nude. So is Jeremy, for that matter. 

“I think,” Jeremy says, and then clears his throat. “Should we go to bed?”

“You're right. Let's go.” A split second's hesitation, then: “Thank you.”

“Don't. Seriously. It's—”

“Don't say it's your job,” Jean says. “Staying up all night to swim with me is not in your job description.”

“Okay.” Jeremy feels the smile bloom on his face despite itself. “Then I won't.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually get emotional when writing but I teared up a couple times during this chapter. In my defense I had [“put your money on me” by arcade fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dHC6I7v-1Pc) on repeat the whole time.
> 
> I'm on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com). Please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	14. foxes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when this fic was funny and lighthearted like five chapters ago? when did it get so intense lmao.

There are two semifinals between the Trojans and the championship. First they're playing the Foxes in South Carolina, then they're hosting Penn. Top two teams advance. For the Trojans, that means either a final at Penn or a final at home to the Foxes. That's what Jeremy keeps thinking about. Not the semifinals, but what comes after: the final, the championship, the celebration, the thrill. He doesn't say anything about it—doesn't want to distract anyone—but it's all he can think about.

In preparation, all the Trojans do is play. Jeremy has to fit in press and sponsorship stuff for the Lightyears, but otherwise, he's at the court with his team at all times. Strictly no parties, no dates, no alcohol, minimal junk food. Early bedtimes. Early mornings. 

The only real break is a weekend movie night Jeremy and Jean host, all the Trojans piled into their room in pajamas to watch some mindless comedy. Jean made fun of the title when it won a poll in the Trojan groupchat, but he's sitting next to Jeremy anyway, eating popcorn and reacting appropriately to the movie. 

Jeremy isn't paying attention. He's too swept up in his endlessly cycling thoughts, some combination of anxiety over their game on Friday and melancholy that this is probably one of the last movie nights he'll ever have with these people. It's not like his old captain, Oliver, ever got to do something like this again. Even when he stops by L.A., it's for a drink with a few of them, and then he's back to Miami to play. His life is just never going to be like this again.

It's April. Jeremy can count down the weeks he has left with his team on his fingers. Soon he won't even need both hands. 

“You are not watching,” Jean whispers, bumping Jeremy's shoulder with his. 

Jeremy presses back instead of moving away. “You were right. This movie sucks.”

“This was your idea.” Jean's breath tickles the side of Jeremy's neck. Jeremy forces himself to look at the TV they've hauled in from Ro's room. A bunch of white people on the screen are doing some strange performance of physical comedy. A few Trojans are laughing; most of them are draped over each other, telling their own jokes and stories, playing with their phones. “Relax.”

*

The Trojans' winning streak this year is unmatched nationwide. They have the second best attacking record in the country. Best defense. An incredible amount of goals scored.

All the same, when they're two minutes away from full time of their first semifinal and the score is four-three, Foxes, Jeremy thinks they won't get that fourth goal.

It's him on the court, Katie on his left, Rogelio and Shereen behind him. Cas in goal. Two minutes fifty-five. Two minutes fifty-four.

Shereen darts down the middle, passes Jeremy the ball. He takes all his steps, narrowly avoids Matt Boyd's giant racquet, and passes the ball down the court toward Katie. She shoots; the ball rebounds off Andrew Minyard's racquet. He's aiming for Dan Wilds, but Jeremy intercepts, cradles the ball in his net, and switches to the other side of the court. 

The other backliner, Nicky Hemmick, says something Jeremy doesn't quite pick up. He makes the pass and gets checked a second after the ball leaves his racquet, Hemmick driving him so hard into the wall that Jeremy has to take a second to catch his breath. 

But when he does catch it, he sees that Katie is trying to pass and Matt has Shereen covered. Jeremy receives the ball instead and doesn't think or even really look at the goal, just shoots.

Red.

Four-four, a minute and a half to go. Minyard doesn't react. Jeremy doesn't wait. He gathers up the ball and sprints back to center court. 

They go to overtime, but the game stays gridlocked, even with Jean and Kevin back on the court to create chances for their respective teams. Jeremy has that awful sinking feeling in his stomach that he sometimes gets when games aren't going in their favor, but he has faith: penalty shootouts are a test of nerves and goalkeeping, and the Trojans have nerves of steel and one of the best goalies in college exy history. The Foxes have—well, both those things, actually. 

“It's going to come down to luck,” he tells his team in the huddle. “Strikers, I want you on pens. Benji, this is your first penalty shootout, and I promise, they're a lot less terrifying than they seem.” He's lying, but it makes Benji stop grinding his teeth, so Jeremy calls it a net positive. “Pilar, you've got this. Try to get it out of his reach, that's going to be our strategy here, he's only five foot. Katie, you're a pro. Laila, I trust you.”

“We just need to hope Andrew Minyard has an off day,” Laila says. “He's had them before.”

“It's out of five,” Jeremy says. “We just need to score more than they do. Let's do it.”

*

As captain, Jeremy lines up to take the nerve-wracking first and last shots. His first goes in, no problem; Minyard barely moves in response.

Dan Wilds shoots first for the Foxes. Scores. Laila bangs her racquet against the floor in frustration. It's fine, though, because Jeremy is sure that Benji is going to make his shot.

He doesn't. The ball flies out too close to Minyard, whose racquet is already up before Benji even takes the shot. 

Next is the Foxes' new striker, Jack something. Shoots. Saved by Laila Dermott Abdul, a goddess. Jeremy would sprint out to her if it were allowed. One-one.

Katie takes the next shot. She's always reliable, and this time is no different. A little feint, and then lands the ball neatly in the corner just out of Minyard's reach. This time, he reacts a little, chin jutting up. 

Another new Fox takes the next one. Shoots. Scores. Two-two with two left each.

Pilar goes for the next one. Minyard bangs his racquet on the floor a couple of times, bullshit intimidation, never works. Pilar shoots. 

Pilar misses. The ball is way off target, rolling away ineffectually, a mile outside of both Minyard's reach and the goal.

Jeremy's heart kicks off. He forces himself to breathe, hugs Pilar when she reaches the rest of the Trojans.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers.

“It's fine,” Jeremy says. “It's my fault. I psyched you out. I'm sorry. It's okay, they've gotta miss one of these.”

Neil Josten takes the fourth shot. Scores. Fuck. Three-two, one round to go.

Jeremy is bringing up the rear for the Trojans. He could've delegated this to Shereen, but most exy teams only have strikers take pens, and theirs is no different. The first and last shots are the hardest, but Jeremy doesn't mind. This is an exy court. The one place in the entire world where his mind just shuts up.

He squares his hips. Minyard looks unaffected. He might not even be looking at Jeremy, actually. 

Jeremy shoots. It lands in the bottom right corner of the goal. Minyard guessed the right direction, but he's off by a hair and staring at the goal behind him like he was positive he'd save it. Jeremy grins, throws his fist into the air. They have a chance. 

Laila needs to save the next goal, or Kevin needs to miss it. One of those seems possible. Jeremy turns toward their goal, locks arms with the rest of his team, and stops breathing.

Kevin raises his racquet with his right hand. He cradles the ball for only a second in its net. As usual, Jeremy finds himself a little bit awed by the resilience of it, just learning to use the other hand.

Kevin shoots. It feels like the ball hangs in the air for a moment. Laila goes the wrong way, a massive sideways leap that sends her and her racquet crashing into the floor. The wall goes red. There's silence for only a second, and then screams. Not the kind Jeremy was hoping for. 

His wall of Trojans dissolves. Laila pushes herself upright, then slumps against the wall. She might be injured. Jeremy needs to check. His legs don't seem to want to move.

He doesn't know what he's supposed to have done. They did everything right. All season, they did everything right. Months of conditioning. Playing full halves, full games even, to get on the Foxes' level. Adding Jean. Changing their structure. Focusing on counterattacks, on speed, on blockading their goal and being ruthless in the attack. They were better than the Foxes last spring. They only lost because they weren't used to playing ninety fucking minutes. What happened? How did they end up here, losing the first semifinal to them in overtime? In pens? When they have the best goalkeeping record in the country? 

When Jeremy looks up, it's Kevin Day in front of him, helmet off already, hand out to shake Jeremy's. Jeremy doesn't even want to touch it. He wants to play this game again, from start to finish, to see if this was a fluke or if he really still—after all this time, if maybe it wasn't Riko, it was Kevin. Jeremy still hasn't ever beaten him on a college court. Now maybe he never will. The Trojans have to beat Penn, hope Penn don't do well against the Foxes, and then somehow come back from this defeat to win in the final.

“We'll see you at finals,” Kevin says. He's smiling, not his press smile, the real one. Jeremy used to try to get this smile out of Kevin all the time. Years ago, when he was at high school nationals and they were all at the same hotel. His grandmother calling him every night. Watching his games. Telling him she was proud of him. Kevin always seemed so quiet, but they ended up friends anyway, somehow, even though Jeremy didn't really like Riko or that Jean kid—

Someone is clapping Jeremy on the back. The only thing Jeremy can think is that he's supposed to be showing good sportsmanship. He's supposed to be shaking Kevin's hand.

He forces himself to smile back. 

“Finals,” Jeremy agrees. “We won't let y'all get away with this again.”

“You'd better not,” Kevin says. “You know I'm always rooting for you guys.”

Someone is at Jeremy's left. At first he thinks it's Laila, but then Kevin's face shutters, and Jeremy turns a little. 

Jean hasn't taken off his helmet yet, but he holds a hand out.

“Good game,” he says, voice an odd, affected kind of calm. “We will see you in L.A. in a few weeks for the final.”

“I look forward to it,” Kevin says, taking his hand. “I—” He looks away, and Jeremy sees the Foxes' goalie start walking in their direction. “Jean, I—”

“I am going to say hi to Renee,” Jean says. He squeezes Jeremy's wrist, and then disappears just as Minyard shows up. 

“Hey,” Jeremy says. “Good game. How'd you know I was going to go for your right?” 

Minyard doesn't say anything in response, just regards him, unimpressed. Jeremy clacks his stick against Minyard's anyway. He can't tell if it was Minyard's appearance or Kevin's presence that made Jean leave. He keeps thinking about Minyard closing down the Foxes' goal for most of the second half. Jeremy only scored on him the one time, and then those two penalties. Kevin made all his shots. What it must be like, playing with someone like that every day, the wild card of it—Jeremy spent all week watching the Foxes' old games, has seen footage where Minyard just stands there the whole time. But he's capable of just—what he did tonight. This.

No wonder Kevin likes him so much.

“Neil will want to say hi,” Kevin says. “Andrew, where—”

“He is with their goalie,” Minyard says. 

“He has a type,” Kevin replies, dry, and then looks back at Jeremy, who still can't make himself move. “Jeremy. We'll see you at finals. Destroy Penn.”

“Only if you get 'em next week,” Jeremy says. “I don't want to play Penn twice.”

Kevin reaches for Jeremy. He wants a hug, Jeremy realizes, which makes sense because he and Kevin always hug. They're friends. They've been friends for years. It's just that Jeremy really doesn't want anyone to touch him right now. 

He reciprocates it anyway. Minyard hovers by Kevin's elbow, uninterested in anything Jeremy has to say, until Jeremy finally unroots himself and manages to put one foot in front of the other.

He can't do this. His team looks about an inch away from crumbling. He needs to get them through the night. There's still everything to play for against Penn, and then they'll just have the final. This isn't them out of the running. He needs to find a way to say that without sounding—desperate, or beaten, defeated—

“Feels like fucking deja vu, huh?” Laila says when Jeremy finds her, still sitting on the floor in front of the goal, staring at her gloved hands. “You think we'll almost beat Penn, too?”

“We're going to beat Penn,” Jeremy says, voice all flat confidence he doesn't really feel. “We're going to fucking annihilate them. Then we're going to host these motherfuckers and annihilate them too.”

“How are we going to do that, Knox?”

“We're going to do what the Foxes do, just practice all the fucking time. We can still win this. Especially if we're at home.” Ten thousand people singing their fight song, ten thousand people propping them up. The hype must have helped the Foxes put their balls in the back of the goal. Especially the penalties. Home sides always win when it comes down to penalties. If it had been at the Trojan Court, with their fight song, _fight on to victory_ —Jeremy is certain it would be a different scene. They haven't lost at home all season. They haven't lost at home in two years.

“You think we can get Josten in? That kid is fucking fast.”

“He was fast last year.”

“He's better now. Hey. Jeremy.”

Jeremy looks down at her. “What?”

“You look fucking scary right now.”

Jeremy beams at her, full-on sunshine. “How about now?”

“Now's worse.”

“Good.” He holds out a hand to help her up. “Let's get the fuck out of here, I'm ready to just get totally obliterated.”

“We're going to have to do press. Rearrange your face, I mean it, you look like Jim Carrey in The Mask.”

Jeremy closes his eyes, wills himself to look happy or at least gracious, and then opens them again. “Well, gosh, I guess it's just awful that they've gone and—”

“I can't stand you,” Laila says. “Truly.” She tugs her helmet off, readjusts her hijab. “We doing this?”

“You don't have to.”

“It was a penalty shootout. I'm starting goalie. They're going to want to hear from me.” 

Her expression is a mess, all her frustration right there on her face. Laila is good at press, always gives them the soundbites they want, but she looks ready to punch someone in the face right now. Maybe herself. 

“Laila, it's Kevin Day.”

“Yeah, and you're Jeremy Knox. I save your goals.”

“You know me. It's different.”

“I just—” She looks away from, a little bitterly. “I don't get how he's so _good_.”

“Kevin?”

“Minyard.”

“Okay, you're not doing press,” Jeremy says. “I'll get someone else.”

“Jeremy—”

“We have two games left,” Jeremy says. “I don't need you comparing yourself to other goalies for them. Go shower. We'll talk on the bus.”

“Jeremy.”

“You're not the captain yet,” Jeremy says. “This is a gift. Take it.”

Laila stares at him. “I love you, you know that?”

Suddenly Jeremy kind of wants to cry. Actually, maybe it's not so sudden. “I know. Go.”

Someone is hugging Jeremy from behind. Jeremy, who feels like he's on fire, really wishes they weren't. He pulls away little, twists to see who it is, and comes face to face with Matt Boyd.

“I don't want to hear it,” Jeremy says. “Seriously, we're going to kill you guys in the final. I mean it.”

Matt laughs. “Bro. A little game of exy can't come between us, right?”

“Ask me after the final,” Jeremy says, leaning back into the hug. “Where's your girlfriend?”

“Already doing press with the problem child,” Matt says, gesturing to where Dan Wilds and Neil Josten are answering questions from reporters. “Don't you need to get on that?”

Jeremy looks around. Most of the Trojans have already filed off the court. The only one hanging back, talking to Renee and looking back at Jeremy, is Jean.

“Yeah,” Jeremy says. “It was good to see you, dude.”

“See you at the final.”

Jeremy grins, this time for real. “Yeah, you will. Beat Penn.”

“Beat Penn,” Matt agrees.

It's the same tack he takes with the reporters: Winning smile. The Foxes are a good team. They have Kevin Day, who is probably the best striker of all time. We'll get 'em next time.

Next to him, Jean echoes these sentiments, says something vague about tactical evolution, throws in some shade at Neil Josten for good measure. Jeremy laughs, the reporters laugh, they take photos, they take videos. 

Jeremy's entire body aches. He needs an ice bath. He wants to get drunk.

*

Because they got stuck doing press, Jean and Jeremy are the last Trojans to shower and the last ones to get out of the Foxes' away locker room and onto the bus. They do all of this in silence.

Twenty minutes later, they all walk into the hotel and onto the elevator in dejected and uncharacteristic quiet. It strikes Jeremy that this is supposed to be his problem to solve.

“Okay, everyone,” he says. “That fucking sucked. But we have another game in two weeks, and we're going to show Penn what the fuck we're made of, and then we're going to fuck the final all the way up.”

“How are we going to do that?” Rogelio says. “Honestly, Knox, there's one game left. If we couldn't even beat the Foxes—”

“They beat the Ravens last year,” Jeremy says. “We're not talking about a bunch of eighteen year olds who haven't done this before. They're the reigning NCAA champs for a reason. We're going to beat Penn, we're going to beat PSU, and we're going to win this thing.”

He makes eye contact with Jean across the elevator. Jean was so right about him. This is the only thing he wants in his entire life: to win, and to be the best. 

“But tonight, let's just get fucking wasted,” Jeremy says. “Who has alcohol?”

“Party in our room,” Theo says, tossing an arm carelessly across Rogelio's shoulders. “We pre-made jungle juice, so it's just been stewing in an ice bucket for like six hours. Come through in fifteen.”

The elevator finally arrives on their floor. Jeremy leads the way to his and Jean's room since Jean is getting dragged into a conversation with someone. 

“That was such a bad pep talk,” Laila tells Jeremy, popping up behind him. “You going to be okay?”

“Better than okay,” Jeremy says, smiling at her. “I'm going to wreck them next time.”

“You're not usually this vindictive. Did you want them just to roll over?”

“No.” It's not the Foxes he's mad at. It's not the other Trojans, either. “I wanted us to be better than we were.”

“You're going to get us there?”

“Watch me.”

“Excuse me,” Jean says, butting in. “Are we going to go inside, or just stand out here arguing all evening?”

“We aren't arguing,” Jeremy says. 

“You look like you are going to murder someone.”

“The Foxes' defense in a couple weeks,” Laila says. She's smiling now, too. Jeremy thinks she looks like a wolf. “I love when Jeremy gets mad.”

Jean looks around at him. Jeremy can't quite read his expression—but then, he rarely can. 

“Open the door,” Jean says.

Jeremy opens the door.

*

At the party, Jeremy makes a beeline for the drinks table. Jean laughs a little and follows him, and they toast—“To the angriest I have ever seen you,” Jean says, and a couple of Trojans join in—and throw back their shots simultaneously.

Theo is playing something good, as moody as Jeremy feels. He pours himself another drink and wanders around the room to look through the playlist.

“This is good,” Jean says at Jeremy's shoulder. “What is it?”

“Joji, Jaden Smith, Majid Jordan?” Jeremy replies. “I've never heard of them before. Except Jaden Smith, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jean says. There's something like amusement in his voice. How he can be amused when Jeremy feels like he's on fire, Jeremy doesn't know. “What's on your playlist? Lady Gaga?”

“Okay, rude and borderline homophobic.”

“So no?”

“I didn't say that.” Jeremy finds himself smiling even though he doesn't want to. He's glad Jean can't see his face. He likes it when Jean makes fun of him. It just seems so normal. 

“Don't change that!” Theo shouts over the music. “I know you're going to put on, like, Lady Gaga or something—”

“Lady Gaga is not the only thing I listen to! Just because I'm not a hipster—”

But Jeremy obediently moves away from the computer. He still doesn't feel quite right, so he gets another drink and mingles. Jean keeps hovering close by. He seems concerned. It's touching. 

“—it's not that I don't think it's a good show, I just like, could never get into the cringe of it, you know?” he's saying, a few minutes and another drink later. He's feigning normalcy, and judging by the piercing stare Jean levels at him across the room, not doing a very good job of it. 

He just doesn't know where they went wrong. Every time they lost to the Ravens, it was because the Ravens were willing to do things the Trojans weren't, on and off the court. When they lost to the Foxes last year, it was because the Foxes were in better shape. It was a loss in the name of fairness, and Jeremy doesn't regret it for a second. When they lost to Stanford the first game of the season, it was because they weren't conditioned for it right, weren't at the level they needed to be at. Jeremy isn't really upset about any of those losses except the Stanford one, but they came back the next week better than they've ever been, and then the next week better than that. 

But this time, he can't pin down why they lost. He knows penalties are a luck thing, but he can't figure out why they didn't score in overtime, get enough goals in the first half to offset Minyard's goalkeeping in the second half. That's the strategy they went in with, and it failed. Matt Boyd is good. Aaron Minyard is good. But Jeremy's been thinking this entire time that he's _better_.

It's unproductive. He's not supposed to be thinking in this direction. When he looks up, Laila and Rogelio are talking to Jean about something. Even from here, mid-conversation with Dev and Shereen, Jeremy wants to know what it is. When Jean catches Jeremy's eye, Jeremy makes an excuse, refills his cup, and finds his way over to them, slinging an arm around Jean's waist.

“What's up?” he says. “You guys are looking super intense.”

Next to him—practically in his arms, which Jeremy didn't even think about until he did it—Jean is absurdly warm. 

“We are discussing summer vacation options,” Jean says. “Diaz is moving to Seattle and wants to go on a road trip. Laila thinks he is just using her for her car.”

“I am,” Rogelio says. “There's no illusion there. But I think between the two of us—three, Moreau, if you want in—we can have a very successful move up there.”

“I think you should just get a U-Haul,” Laila says. 

“Of course _you_ would say that. But come on. The idea of a west coast drive doesn't appeal to you at all?”

“It does, just not in my car. I'll go with you in the van, but I'm not driving all the way up there and back, loaded with all your shit, in my Camry.” 

Jeremy tunes out of the conversation. He'll probably be in Houston by the time this happens. He was thinking of asking Laila or Jean to help him move in, actually. Maybe Alvarez is getting him in the divorce. 

“What about you, Knox? When are you heading out to Houston?”

“Right after commencement.” 

He wants to get another drink, but he's enjoying standing here next to Jean too much. He can't think of a less fun party he's been to, except for maybe when they were all talking around Jean in their hotel room in West Virginia a few weeks ago. 

But it gets later and the Trojans get drunk enough to enjoy themselves. Most of the lights go off; the music gets a little less moody, a little more dance-y. Jeremy sits on one of the hotel beds, drinks some of his absurdly strong jungle juice, opens ESPN-E on his phone, and promptly gets the phone snatched right out of his hands.

“I hate when you do this,” Laila says. “I'm keeping this until our flight tomorrow.”

“I need it for the alarm!”

“Ask the front desk for a wake up call,” she replies, sticking the phone in her pocket and seeking out Alvarez. Maybe they're back on. Jeremy can't really tell with them anymore.

“They broke up, didn't they?” Jean says. 

He sits down next to Jeremy, leg bumping against Jeremy's. Jeremy shouldn't have the reaction it he does, but tonight his entire body feels electric, rage and inadequacy and frustration lubricated by alcohol and desperately, desperately needing some kind of outlet. He presses his leg against Jean's.

“Laila's super complicated, and Alvarez overthinks everything,” Jeremy says. “I think they'll be fine.”

Jean's head tilts toward Jeremy's. His eyes drop. Jeremy tracks the fall of his eyelashes. “Do you?” 

“They've been through a lot together. It has to work out.”

“There's that famous Jeremy Knox optimism.” 

Jeremy smiles. There's something intoxicating about the timbre of Jean's voice. Jeremy wants to lean in. He does lean in. Jean's lips part.

“Jeremy! Get in on this!” 

Jeremy looks up. Pilar, a hand out, wants him to join a dance circle.

“I'll get back to you,” Jeremy tells Jean, and takes Pilar's hand.

She steers them to the drinks table first. The circle turns into a grind chain, and Jeremy does his best to end up behind Jean, who, as always, smells good. It's not really sexual—Pilar is behind him, laughing—but Jeremy gets his hands low on Jean's hips and pulls him backward. He can't tell if he's imagining it, but he thinks Jean stops in the middle of saying something to Laila in front of him and coughs before finishing the sentence.

None of them are coordinated enough to keep it going for long, though, and the chain devolves into just regular dancing again. Jean stays close for a second before Katie snatches his hand and drags him toward the computer (“We need to Africanize this white boy's playlist,” she's saying, and she has a point).

Jeremy takes a two minute bathroom break. The quiet is weird, and when he looks in the mirror, he realizes that he's actually pretty drunk. He leans against the sink for a second, breathing in and out, in and out, and then he opens the door. 

The Trojans are all crowded near the bathroom. Jeremy pushes into the throng, finding himself comforted by the people surrounding him. It's the first time any of the tension in his body has relaxed all night, just standing there while the rest of them talk and laugh around him. They must be just as upset as he is, but having them all there, drunk and silly, reminds him why this is the best team in the country. He'd rather lose with them than win with anyone else. 

He has to come out of this reverie, though, because Benji wants to talk about the game: “Seriously, Jeremy, I'm sorry about the penalty, I was just way too in my head.”

“It's like that sometimes,” Jeremy says, refilling his cup. “Penalties are just a test of, like, mental strength. But a lot of it is luck, too. We just didn't get lucky.”

They shouldn't have gotten to penalties. They should've ended it in ninety minutes. They could've won it in ninety. The Foxes aren't better than them, not on a good day. But it wasn't a good day.

“Still,” Benji says. “I just feel like I let the team down. I don't think I—”

Jeremy stops listening, because Jean is right next to him, and that's definitely the brush of his hand against Jeremy's ass and then back up to his lower back. Jeremy's breath hitches.

“You didn't let anyone down,” Jeremy hears himself saying. The only thing he can feel is Jean's hand. He imagines those static electricity balls they have at science museums. “If anything, I—”

“Don't take the blame for it, I mean it, I feel like I—” Benji stops, shrugs helplessly. “I don't know. Like, should I apologize to everyone?”

“Look,” Jeremy says. “It's luck. Penalties are basically a coin flip that's weighted in the home team's favor. We'll get them in finals, and I don't want to see any of this self-doubt then, okay? You don't have anything to apologize for. If you weren't a good player, you wouldn't be on this team.”

“Okay,” Benji says, but Jeremy can barely focus on him. Jean's hand is burning through his t-shirt. “Are you okay, though? You seem kind of … strange.”

“It's just a weird night.” Jeremy attempts a bright smile. “We'll bounce back, though, right?”

“Right.” Benji still sounds a little doubtful. “I mean, we're definitely going to beat Penn.”

“That's the spirit,” Jeremy says, finishing his drink and scanning the drinks table. The only things left are some cans of light beer. He reaches for one, but Jean's hand wraps around his wrist. It reminds him of earlier, when he was talking to Kevin and Jean appeared out of nowhere.

“Maybe not,” Jean says. His breath is warm on the back of Jeremy's neck. Jeremy can't resist a shiver. “I think we should get out of here.”

Jeremy doesn't even say goodbye to anyone. He drops his cup in the overflowing trash can and goes straight out the door. 

When they get to their room, Jeremy has to fumble for his key. Maybe he's drunk, or maybe it's just Jean lurking too close behind him, all body heat. 

He gets it at last—has to jam his hand between himself and Jean to get into his back pocket, which makes Jean laugh, low, right into Jeremy's ear—and taps them in.

The door is barely closed when Jean says, “Jeremy.”

Jeremy ignores him, turns to bolt the door, and when he turns back Jean is much too close. He's in USC red tonight like everyone else, TROJANS emblazoned across the front in bright yellow, they couldn't find a printer who got the gold right, a little exy racquet on the sleeve. Jeremy takes a breath and then grips the front of Jean's shirt, pulling him in until their foreheads touch.

“I'm sick of letting things happen to me,” Jeremy says. “I want this if you want it.”

“I want it,” Jean says.

He barely gets his words out before Jeremy kisses him. It's dizzying, or maybe Jeremy is just drunker than he thought he was. Jean kisses with his whole body, fingers at Jeremy's hips, then skimming up under his shirt, all gentle pressure—Jeremy brings his hand up to Jean's throat, grazing it with his fingers, thinking, _Jesus, finally_ —Jean bites at Jeremy's lower lip and Jeremy's stomach swoops up, heart rate skyrocketing.

“Can I just say,” Jeremy says, all breath, “I've wanted to suck you off since last spring. At least.”

At first it was just that Jean is hot and anyone, probably, with eyes, would want to. But now it's different, like he wants Jean to feel good, wants to see Jean pliant and soft, wants to see him lose control a little, wants—

“At least?” Jean replies. “You never said. So many secrets, Knox.” 

“Says you.”

He kisses Jeremy again, drags his lips onto Jeremy's jaw, his neck. The back of Jeremy's head bangs against the door, and Jean laughs a little, breathy. Unwilling to let Jean gain the upper hand, Jeremy wraps a leg around Jean's, tugging him closer; he smooths his hands up Jean's back and finds that, hot as the Trojans gear is, he'd rather be touching bare skin.

“Take your shirt off.”

“Bossy,” Jean say, but he pulls away just enough to comply, groans a little when Jeremy drags his hands up his chest. 

“Do you like that?”

Jean stumbles backwards toward one of the beds, dragging Jeremy along with him. “I like everything about you.” 

Jeremy can't find a response, so instead, he pushes Jean down and straddles him. “Is this okay?”

“I told you. I am not—”

“Uncomfortable with touch. Right. I think I noticed that when you were groping me at the party.” 

“You started it. And you liked it.”

“Didn't say I didn't.”

“You talk too much,” Jean says, locking his hands around Jeremy's thighs. Jeremy barely has time to enjoy it before Jean's lips are crashing against his, uncoordinated, sloppier than Jeremy would've expected. 

“Let me,” Jeremy says, pushing himself up a little.

“Well, you have been waiting a year.”

Jeremy grins, ducks his head to press open-mouthed kisses against Jean's chest. He reaches for Jean's waistband and runs his hands over the uneven skin where Jean's sweats have ridden down. It feels like the first time he's seeing Jean's scars even though of course it isn't—the claw-shaped mark on one shoulder, a raised line like barbed wire across his chest, little cigarette burns dotting his collarbone. Around the scars, Jean's skin is taut over muscle. His heart beats rabbit fast when Jeremy kisses a spot just over it. Jeremy doesn't know how so much violence resulted in this much beauty. He nips at the soft skin on Jean's throat, documents the vibrations when Jean moans and tugs Jeremy's hair in response. He doesn't think he's ever wanted someone more. 

“You—seriously—” Jeremy says between kisses, unsure what he's trying to say. He wants this too much, maybe. His stomach churns, but he ignores it. This is fine. This is perfect. Nothing he hasn't done before. A quick no feelings hookup. It's not like it's his first one night stand.

“Wait—stop. What?”

Jeremy freezes, one hand still curled around the curve of Jean's hip. “What?”

“A 'quick no feelings hookup'?” Jean asks.

“I didn't—I didn't say that out loud.”

“What?” Jean twists away from Jeremy. “How drunk are you?”

Jeremy blinks. “I'm not—I'm fine.”

“Jeremy.”

“Okay, I mean—okay, I am. I'm probably really drunk. I just thought—we could just get it out of our systems, right? It's not like—I mean, we've both done this before. We—” Jeremy closes his eyes. Fuck. He's done this before, but never with a teammate, not since he became vice-captain his sophomore year. Fuck. “Fuck.” 

“Out of our systems?” Jean repeats. 

He stands up, not facing Jeremy for what could be a second or could be an hour. All Jeremy knows is that the room is spinning around him.

“You are too drunk to make this decision right now,” Jean says. 

He's right. Jeremy would absolutely not be doing this sober. 

“I'm sorry,” Jeremy says. 

“You don't have to—” Jean turns back toward him. “You did not do anything wrong.”

“Except—want this,” Jeremy says. He didn't really mean to say it, but he's said plenty of stuff he didn't mean to say aloud tonight. He sits up, rubs at his eyes with his hands. All the fight from earlier has gone out of him; he feels worn out, useless, a dead battery. “I'm going to take a shower.” 

“Okay,” Jean says. 

“I'm sorry,” Jeremy says. “It won't happen again.”

“Jeremy—”

“Good night,” Jeremy interrupts, and ducks into the shower to wash away as much embarrassment as possible. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao u thought
> 
> come talk to me on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com). please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	15. recovery

When Jeremy wakes up, he's struck first by how much he hates the sun peeking in through the hotel blinds. His head throbs. His throat is dry. He gropes around on the table by his head for his water bottle.

He catches sight of Jean, still sound asleep, and then he's struck by the sheer fucking embarrassment of his position. He buries his face back in his pillow, wishes he could sink into the bed, wishes he could just disappear.

Jeremy can't believe he went through this entire season pretending he didn't have a crush on Jean, only to get drunk and ruin it after their first semifinal.

Oh. Fuck. Their first semifinal. He really _does_ wish he could disappear, fuck—

Okay. He needs to shower. He needs to get some toast or something into his system. He needs to gather his team and see if he can urge them to go on their pre-planned sightseeing trip through Columbia.

Jeremy stumbles into the bathroom, strips, and gets into the shower, where turns the water dial as far toward hot as it will go. He spends too long under the shower stream. It's his third shower in, what, like twelve hours? But he still wishes he could just stay here for the rest of his life. Just stand under the hot water by himself. Forever. 

In the end, he gets out because Jean knocks lightly on the door. Right. This isn't just his room.

“One sec,” Jeremy calls, turning off the water and scrubbing his towel over his hair. Standing up outside the shower is difficult. He still feels kind of drunk. 

When Jeremy gets out of the bathroom, Jean is sitting on the end of Jeremy's bed, a little gingerly.

“Sorry,” Jeremy says, using his dirty clothes to cover his bare chest. “Go ahead.”

“I thought you might have drowned,” Jean says. He doesn't get up. “I was just—checking.”

“No. I wish.” Jeremy closes his eyes. He really wanted to avoid this for as long as possible. “I guess we need to, like, debrief or whatever.” 

“Debrief?”

“I'm just sorry I—I know this isn't an excuse, but I was drunk and kind of pissed off and I wasn't really thinking straight. I should've waited at least 'til after the final.”

“It's fine,” Jean replies. “Jeremy, I—you do not have to apologize. I think—I'm glad we stopped.”

Jeremy hoists his clothes up to cover more of his chest. “You are?”

“Yes. You were right. It would not have been a good idea.”

“Okay.” Jeremy stares at him, searching for a response. “I'm glad we didn't do anything else then. I wouldn't have wanted you to—regret it.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“It's fine. I don't—you don't owe me anything. I just don't want things to be weird.”

“Jeremy,” Jean says, rising a little.

“See, like that. It's, like, weird that you're calling me Jeremy. You never call me that.”

“It's—” Jean's brow furrows. “—your name.”

“I just—don't want anything to change. I wish we could just—” This is ridiculous. Jeremy is being ridiculous. He forces himself to breathe in, exhale. “God, I'm sorry. I'm so hungover. I'm going to just bury myself in a pot of coffee downstairs while everyone else wakes up.” 

“Can you please stop looking miserable?” Jean says. “Whatever I said—”

“You didn't say anything, I just—feel so stupid. And, like, embarrassed. I don't know, I just like—thought we were on the same page, and we just so weren't, and also if I'd been sober I never would've done it, I just—” Jeremy squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them again Jean is staring back at him, wide-eyed. “I don't want you to feel like I—like we aren't—I don't know. You know I love you, right?”

“I,” Jean says, startled. “Yes. You are probably my—” But he stops, clearly unsure how to proceed. A full year of progress, and in one night—

Jeremy has to fix it, so he does. He grins. It takes more effort than it should. “You're a really good kisser, though, you've got that going for you.”

Something like a sigh comes out of Jean's mouth. “Thank you. You have a hickey, by the way. Sorry about that.”

“What?” Jeremy turns to examine himself in the mirror. He looks like shit, and, sure enough, right there on his neck is a red-purple bruise, much brighter than the darker marks on his arms and shoulders from where he connected too hard with the plexiglass last night. “Are you serious? Are you fourteen?”

“In my defense,” Jean says, “I was drunk. And—” A little bashful: “I like them.”

Jeremy laughs. It almost feels natural.

*

The flight to L.A. that afternoon is seven hours long. For once, Jeremy is glad that he isn't tall enough to necessitate the emergency exit rows that Dev, Katie, and Jean always get on these flights. It means he's a few rows ahead of Jean and therefore does not have to pretend to be asleep in order to avoid potentially awkward conversation.

Everyone is hungover enough anyway that they're all sleeping through the flight. They tried to sightsee in Columbia after brunch, but about fifteen minutes into it Benji had to stop and throw up in a public garbage can, so they cut it short and got to the airport early.

Jeremy is tucked into the window seat, hood up to cover the mark on his throat. Next to him, Laila dozes, her head resting on Shereen's shoulder. Despite his own poor night of sleep, Jeremy can't find it within himself to do the same, so he pulls his copy of _King Lear_ out of his bag and tries to force himself to read it.

He's supposed to have finished the play already, but the last few weeks have been so busy that he's barely cracked it open. There's a paper comparing Lear to one of the Henries due on Wednesday. He has seven hours to kill, and the play isn't very long. 

But he gets distracted staring out the window, at the unmarred milky white of the clouds around them. It's strange that Jean likes hickeys. They're too old for it, really; Jeremy's had a few in recent years, but mostly he stopped getting them around the same time he graduated from high school. 

He's not a therapist, and he can't really psychoanalyze Jean, but Jeremy's thoughts drift to Riko anyway, to the bruises _he_ put on Jean's body, the way Jean looked when he first came to USC. How he stripped his shirt off in the locker room when he finally got cleared for practice, bold, unflinching. Jeremy thought he was used to it because the other Ravens were like that, too, but now he's not so sure.

Maybe that's why. Jean likes hickeys because they aren't bruises the same way the ones Riko gave him were bruises. Deliberate, yes, but not violent. 

Or maybe Jeremy is overthinking it. He plays with the idea of asking Kevin. Again, he wonders what exactly went down. What made Kevin leave Jean there, and if Jean doesn't blame him, why can't he even look at him? What was Kevin going to say?

It's sad. They used to be close. Jean taught Kevin French. Every memory Jean has from before coming to L.A., every one that isn't completely tainted by Riko, seems to feature Kevin. Going to the movies together. Trading illicit Christmas presents.

Jeremy tries not to be pissed at Kevin about it, about abandoning Jean in the Nest. Leaving him there—Jean is convinced—to die. The Moriyamas destroyed Kevin's playing hand, almost wrecked his career. Riko offered Kevin a spot coaching the Ravens, and he did it publicly, probably only to embarrass Kevin. The world would've had to miss out on—everything. Kevin's recovery, Kevin playing with his right hand, Kevin winning without Riko by his side, Kevin—

Jeremy closes his eyes. He thinks about Jean's hands. Rough. Big. Fingers a little misshapen from injury. He thinks about Jean's hands on him, wrapped around his wrist, curled in his hair, possessive on his lower back—

His seat on the plane is uncomfortable. Jeremy isn't super tall, but his knees still bump against the seat in front of him. The armrest between him and the window cuts into his side, which is mottled with bruises from the game. His head, resting next to the window, is starting to hurt. It doesn't help that he's hungover as hell and they're only an hour into the flight.

That's it. No more harmless flirting. He needs to control himself. Jean made it clear he isn't interested anyway.

Jeremy squeezes the corner of the book in his lap. He can't focus on it. He usually likes Shakespeare, but something about this story just hits too close for comfort right now—Lear's desperation to be loved, the mess he makes of everything because of it. 

The next time Jeremy opens his eyes, it's three hours later and a flight attendant is offering him pretzels and water. He accepts both and promptly sinks back into sleep.

*

They don't have a real practice Sunday, but Jeremy has tons of excess energy to burn off. He could go for a bike ride or a run, but the only thing he really wants to do is get back on the court.

So he does. After their rundown of everything they did wrong Friday night, he ducks downstairs. 

ESPN-E headlines run through his head. _Captain Sunshine Devastated After Semifinal Loss. Sun Sets on USC Championship Hopes. Not So Sunny: Trojans Stunned at PSU._ Jeremy has always thought the Captain Sunshine thing was kind of stupid. No one ever uses it when he and his team are doing well. It's been sarcastic as long as he can remember.

The court takes on an odd sheen when it's empty. No spectators. No one to bounce ideas or balls off of. The space between the plexiglass walls looks uncrossable. Every footstep echoes. 

He's not really dressed for this. He needs his helmet and his racquet at least. He's in lifting shoes, not court shoes. 

Luckily he's the captain, so he has the keys to a locker room fully stocked with all those things. He digs through his bag for the keys, opens the door, and makes his way to his locker.

Someone's beaten him to it. 

“What are you doing here?” he says. “This is the boys' locker room. And there's no practice today.”

“I know,” Laila says. “I saw you come this way, and I—didn't want you to do this alone.”

“Do what?”

“You know. You—” She waves a hand in the air. “After Stanford, you came to the court to practice solo. I thought you grew out of that when you got made captain.”

Jeremy walks past her to his locker, pulls out his helmet and a change of shoes. “Guess not.”

“You really want to do this?”

He doesn't look at her, pulls his racquet over his head and tightens the straps. “It's not getting the ball past you that I'm worried about, Laila.”

“It's not your performance that fucked us over, Jeremy.” 

“We still need to be better if we're going to beat them in the final. That starts with me.” 

“How?”

“How what?” Jeremy says, walking past her back out to the court. She follows him to the utility closet where he pulls his racquet off the rack.

“How are you going to be better?” Laila moves in front of him, blocking his path and forcing him to look at her. “We've just had our best season ever. How are we supposed to improve on that?”

“Practice makes perfect, right?”

Laila's eyes narrow. “What are you planning on doing right now?”

“Fucking around with a racquet and a ball for an hour or two.”

“Do you think it'd work better with the rest of the team here?”

“It's Sunday. They have homework. Coach would get annoyed. Plus everyone's exhausted.”

“You don't think anyone else misses playing exy with no stakes?” Laila asks. “If you text them, they'll come running. Most of them are still drinking Rheman's coffee upstairs.”

“I can't make them give up their free time for an unscheduled practice.” 

“Don't make them, then. Ask them. Do you really think this team wouldn't show up for you if you asked them to?”

Jeremy considers her. “You're going to be good at this next year.”

“I'm good at everything.” She smiles, fierce, that wolf thing again. “I mean, except relationships.”

“You and me both.” Jeremy feels suddenly self-conscious about his hickey again. He has a hoodie on to hide it, but it's warm out; he looks ridiculous. At least the helmet will cover it. “Okay. I'll text them.” 

He does: _Fully optional scrimmage in the court. Get your gear on. Fifteen minutes._

*

Alvarez and Rogelio come in first, then Theo and Jean and the goalies, then Dev and Shereen carrying a case of Gatorade. A few minutes later, every last one of the Trojans is on the court in bare bones armor, one or two in the wrong pair of shoes.

“Thanks for coming, everyone,” Jeremy says. “I think we should just play, right?”

After a full three hours spent rewatching and then picking apart their weekend performance against the Foxes, none of the Trojans are in the mood to talk. That was the thing Jeremy forgot about. He might have some serious issues, but the rest of the Trojans play exy, too. And that means they've got issues galore and only one known coping mechanism. 

It's a brutal two hours. They break up roughly into two teams with the goalies switching off and then just go all out. There is no structure to it. Rogelio keeps trying to get goals. Not a single dealer actually plays as a dealer. Jeremy doesn't even know if anyone other than him is keeping score.

No one really communicates at first, which is weird for the Trojans, a team built entirely on communication. Jeremy is always hoarse after practice, more after games. But for the first half of their impromptu practice, the only real sounds are sneakers squeaking against polished maple, racquets colliding, and balls ricocheting off walls. By the end, though, they're shouting back and forth. They're rougher with each other than they usually are in practice, but not as rough as they'd be against real opposition. 

At the end of it, Jeremy feels like his entire body is one tap away from falling apart. But it's worth it, because his Trojans are smiling. They had fun. They enjoyed this. And so did he.

*

“I have a question for you,” Laila says when she and Jeremy are alone in her car after everyone has showered and decided on a place to get food. “Where did that hickey come from?”

“What hickey?”

“The one you've been trying to hide all day.”

Jeremy resists the urge to cover the mark with his hand. “It's just a bruise.”

“Sure. Next you're going to say you burned yourself with a curling iron.”

Jeremy laughs. It hurts to move very much; his lungs still burn, and his entire body is probably going to be sore in the morning. 

“Thanks for convincing me to give this a shot,” he says. “I think we needed it.”

“No one likes to lose, Jeremy.”

Laila follows Theo's car out of the athletes' lot. Jeremy reaches forward to fiddle with the radio, trying to find something less offensive to listen to.

“Hey,” he says. “I have a question for you. Why are we—the entire team leadership—in a car by ourselves while the rest of our team drives to lunch?”

“Everyone is psyched about riding in Jean's bougie ass luxury car.” Laila sighs dramatically. “I'm yesterday's news.”

“It's a nice car.”

“You honestly wouldn't know a nice car if it—” She stops mid-sentence, tightens her grip on the steering wheel. Jeremy can imagine the end of it: if it crashed right into you. “Sorry.”

“Don't. Seriously. It's fine. It's funny.”

“That's so fucked up, but okay.” A pause, then: “I wanted to ask you about the musketeer.”

Jeremy stares out the window. It's bright out. They're at a stoplight. He can see Jean's car on the road alongside theirs. Jean doesn't look over. They've barely talked since arriving in L.A. last night, but it's understandable enough. They got here, went to dinner separately, went out separately, and went to bed. Separately. 

“What about him?”

“Are you still—” She waves a hand in the air. “You know. Into him?”

Jean's car has four other Trojans in it, which is strange considering he barely talks to any of them. Laila was probably right about the car.

When Jeremy doesn't respond, Laila continues, “Because I mean—Jean would definitely be down. He adores you.”

This is probably the last thing he wants to talk about. “He wouldn't.”

“How would you even know? Have you guys ever discussed it?”

“I don't want to talk about this, Laila.”

“But he—”

“I mean it. Drop it.” 

“I don't know why you're always so cagey about relationships,” Laila says. “You know our team is incestuous as fuck, right? And everyone knows about it?”

“You know I like keeping this stuff private. Especially when we're talking about my traumatized roommate.”

“Okay,” Laila says. “Fine. You ask everything you want about Alvarez, but clam up when I ask you one little question. No problem.”

“It's not the same thing. You like talking about it. I don't.”

Laila sighs. “You're right, but I hate it.”

“It's payback for when you were right earlier.”

“At least I was right about something fun.” She glances at Jeremy. “You good?”

Jeremy looks out the windshield at the endless array of cars in front of them. Anything could happen right now. There's no reason for him to trust that it won't just because he's with Laila. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I'm good.”

*

The next night, the Trojans assemble for another post-practice practice. This time they focus on taking penalty shots.

The night after is another frenzied free for all, but the night after that, they throw in some of the Ravens drills for extra prep. After that, they do a full evening of intense hot yoga at an L.A. gym Jean recommends. 

Then it's Friday, Foxes at Penn, live on ESPN2. They watch it in Jeremy and Jean's room, Rogelio's borrowed TV propped up haphazardly on a desk, everyone piled on the beds or on pillows on the floor. Rheman suggested watching it in the same room where they have their postmatch debriefs, but Jeremy didn't want to elevate it. It's just the Foxes versus Penn. No big deal. Two teams that aren't nearly as good as the Trojans.

It's hard-fought for the Foxes. Their reliance on home-court advantage becomes clear when Kevin loses the ball early in the first half in response to the Penn crowd's jeers. Next to Jeremy, Jean is stiff—Jeremy can't tell if it's from watching Kevin play poorly or from the jeers themselves. 

Nevertheless, Kevin is first to score, putting the ball past Penn's goalie eight minutes in. Penn get one back and then another. Josten scores. The Foxes make striker subs. Penn score again. Then again. Four-two, Penn at the break. Renee Walker gets a clap on her back from Matt as she gets off the court.

In the second half, Andrew Minyard shuts down the goal. Penn stay at four. Josten comes on and scores twice within three minutes to even them out. Kevin comes back on a few minutes later. Between them, they drag the Foxes up to five-four by the time the final whistle blows. 

Pandemonium among the Foxes. Devastation among the Nittany Lions. Jeremy knows how it feels, looks away from the screen at his teammates. Next to him, Jean is sending a text to Renee. Alvarez and Shereen are gaming something out on a piece of paper. Rogelio looks shocked. So does Laila.

“See?” Jeremy says. “We're going to demolish Penn.”

*

“I know this is ridiculous,” Jeremy says. “I know. I'm being ridiculous. I just—” He thrusts both his hands up, frustrated. “He's probably my best friend, and I feel like I fucked everything up.”

His therapist looks back at him over her glasses. It's the look she gives him when he comes to her with one of these little outbursts: she's waiting for him to get to the point.

“I'm fully capable of hooking up with someone and feeling nothing about it,” Jeremy continues. “I really am. But we were drunk, and he's on my team, and he has all this, like, shit with his last captain—I don't know how deep it went, really, but I don't want to, like, blur the lines any more than I already have. Doesn't that make sense?”

“Did he consent?”

“He started it. Sort of. I mean, I was into it, too, but he definitely—” Jeremy tries to think back. The beginning of the night is a blur. Only his embarrassment at the end is in sharp focus. “He was definitely into me.”

“Then why are you blaming yourself for this?”

“Because! It's my responsibility. I'm the captain. He's—”

“Perfectly capable of making his own decisions?”

Jeremy winces. “Yeah. Fine. He is.”

“And you guys talked it out,” Carolina continues. She has a freckle by her nose. Jeremy always looks at it when he doesn't want to look her in the eye. “So why are you still so stressed?”

“I don't know. I'm stressed about everything. I—know it's a few weeks early, but it might be that time of year.”

“I can call your psychiatrist,” she says.

“I don't know,” Jeremy says again. “It's easy to get out of bed when there's exy to get up for. But in a couple of weeks—” 

In a couple of weeks it'll just be endless balmy spring mornings and class and finals and then the move. Jeremy closes his eyes.

“Open your eyes, Jeremy. This is a safe space. What's going on?”

“I don't know,” Jeremy says. “What if I leave here, and it's just, like—like I peaked here, and I didn't even do the thing I came here to do? Like, I don't even win championships, and then I go rot in Houston, and then I'm just, like, this one hit wonder who was a good college striker and now he works in HR or something?”

“Do you really think that's going to happen?”

“No, I just—I hope it doesn't, I guess.”

“Jeremy, we've talked about this,” Carolina says, voice all gentle reprimand. “Doomsdaying is unproductive, especially when you know better.”

“Knowing better just doesn't always—help. I mean, if I'm, like, barely sleeping, right, and I'm always stressed, and I know my personal outlet for stress is about to go up in smoke, then obviously my mood is just going to be completely fucked, right?”

“Not if you see it coming and tackle it beforehand.” Carolina smiles. “We'll talk to your doctor. In the meantime, I have some new distress tolerance exercises I'd like you to try.”

*

It was probably a bad idea to sit near the TVs in the rec center and a worse one to switch the channel to ESPN-E. Boston are doing better than expected their first season in the playoffs since 2013. The Lightyears dominate. Miami scrape against Houston's record. Then college: Should Penn fire their coach? Should USC? Does David Wymack, who picks from among a smaller stack of players, rival Tetsuji Moriyama, who always had access to the best high school players? Who is the best college player of all time and why is it Kevin Day?

“I will turn it off,” Jean says, sounding so hilariously parental that Jeremy has to laugh.

“Sorry. I can't help if exy is more interesting to me than this essay.”

“Exy is more interesting to you than anything, but you still manage to brush your teeth.”

“Fair point,” Jeremy says, dropping his eyes back to his French essay on some punishing film they watched in class last week. Jeremy was so exhausted he barely paid any attention, but Jean has seen the movie and as such is an invaluable ally in this fight against failing a class his last semester of college. “I'm saying the cigarettes served as a motif to illustrate the perpetual ennui of French teenagers. Would you say that's accurate?”

“I would say you are finally putting that English minor to good use.”

Jeremy opens his mouth to reply, but then he finds that the only thing he can think to say is an innuendo, so he closes it. He reads the synopsis of the film again and adds a couple of sentences, then passes his laptop to Jean and switches to Shakespeare. They're reading Caesar now. Jeremy wishes he'd taken the comedy seminar instead of the tragedy one—all these failed leaders are starting to grind at him.

“I made some changes,” Jean says eventually. “Your French has really improved. You finally have the subjunctive down.”

“I don't know why it kept tripping me up,” Jeremy says. “It's not that different in Spanish.”

Jean hands the laptops back. Jeremy accepts it, careful not to let their hands touch.

“Sometimes you just—” Jean says, then looks at his own mountain of boring sports science homework. “Never mind.”

“Well—thanks. I think you just bumped me up a letter grade.”

“Please. If you do not get an A in French as a native Spanish speaker with a French roommate, I will consider it a personal insult.”

“Got it.” It's hard not to smile at all the ridiculous bullshit that comes out of Jean's mouth. “Gratitude rescinded. I'll get you that A, Moreau.”

Jean doesn't look up at him. “You'd better.”

*

Jeremy doesn't get nervous on an exy court, but today, moments before the whistle blows at what could be his last ever game at the Trojan Court, he can't quite stand still. He shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, back to his left. The Penn striker across center court from him looks faintly confused.

They've spent the last two weeks preparing for this moment, ironing down any weaknesses, cementing their backline, imbuing confidence in their freshmen. Jeremy doesn't plan on this being his last game on the Trojan Court. He still has one more thing to prove, and he can't do it against Penn.

Winner goes to the final. Jeremy straightens, bares his teeth at the striker. The whistle blows. Penn's deal.

It's rare to score on a first deal, rarer still when the first deal was from the opposing team. But Theo intercepts a pass; he and Jean pass it back and forth until they reach Shereen; Shereen gets it to Jeremy and Katie; Katie bangs it just beyond the goalie's reach. Thirty seconds and it's already one-nothing, Trojans.

Elated, Jeremy jogs back to half court. He can't let himself feel this yet; they have almost ninety minutes to go, and any mistake will be punished. 

The second goal is one of Jean's trademark plays, wherein he uses all his steps to go unnecessarily far up the right side of the court and pass to Jeremy. The pass is so perfect that Jeremy barely needs to move to catch it. Pass to Shereen, a ricochet off the wall, back into Jeremy's net, a glance up to locate the goalie, shot, red. Two-nothing, Trojans.

It's not as easy after that. Penn refocus; they sub on a defensive dealer, close down their half. This has the advantage of completely blocking the Trojan offense but the moderate disadvantage of making it very difficult for Penn to score.

Eventually, they pull one back, a gorgeous solo goal from their striker that even Jeremy has to admire. But then Benji scores (racquet clacks all around; Jeremy bangs on the plexiglass), and Penn can't make up the deficit, and at the half, it's three-one. 

Like last time, the halftime locker room is a buzzy anxious mess. 

“They don't have the firepower to make up the goals,” Jeremy says. He has that floaty feeling again, right on the cusp of giddy. He tries to make it come off as confidence. “They're a defensive side with one star striker. We're a well-rounded powerhouse. I think we're going to be fine.”

“That's the spirit,” Rheman says, a hand resting on Jeremy's shoulder. “Laila, you're off for the rest of the game unless we have an emergency. Castro, you're on. Dev, Diaz—you know what to do.” 

Jeremy tunes out the rest of this. He knows what tactics they're going to use. He's been working with Rheman and the rest of the team to develop them all season. He watches his teammates instead. All of them look completely up for it.

They're going to win. They're going to win, and then they're going to play the Foxes in the final here at the Trojan Court, and they're going to win that too.

*

Five-three. A goal from Pilar. Another goal from Jeremy, right at the end.

His eyes sting. He can't cry in front of the press—not at a semifinal—so he pulls his helmet off and wipes at his face with his glove. He hugs Penn's captain, tells him it sucks that they're out. He squeezes Katie. He clacks racquets with Jean. He spins Laila in the air until she laughs and tells him to stop, and then Alvarez spins him. He raises his racquet to the Trojan support, a sea of fans that have been shouting their fight song since they got here two hours ago. 

He and Laila stumble toward the assembled press. He barely even knows what he says.

“Obviously we're overjoyed. I just think the Foxes don't know what they're in for.”

Next to him, Laila agrees. She says some talking point or other, makes a joke about saving every Kevin Day shot next week, and signs off. Jeremy follows her toward the lockers, still a little dazed.

“Well,” he says, before the girls go off to their own locker room. “We did it. Finals, y'all.”

Cheers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> come talk to me on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com). please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	16. final

Post-Penn is the Trojans' last real chance to spend time together without stressing about the final. They go to Sticks and Nets again, courtesy of the team credit card, and proceed to order a table-covering amount of food and alcohol. 

Jeremy used to like dancing here. He cradles his drink, takes a long sip, watches his teammates get on the dance floor between the tables and the bar. It's not melancholy, exactly, stopping him from following them. He just feels halfway between drunk and not, weirdly tired, unsure what to do with his limbs.

Plus there's Jean, who has finally gotten roped into dancing with the Trojans. It only took a year. That's probably closer to the real reason Jeremy is keeping his distance over here, where Shereen, Theo, and Dev are talking about how eager they are to finally get to start smoking again after the season ends. Jeremy pretends to pay attention to the conversation, but he can't keep his eyes from drifting to the dance floor.

He's not attracted to Jean. Or, well, okay, he is, but that's not it. It's the magnetism between them—how they always seem to find each other in crowded rooms. Jean is basically his closest friend. How did that happen?

If he walks out there, he can dance with Jean. He can probably restart everything they've put on pause for the last few weeks. He can take advantage of Jean's obvious interest in him, kiss Jean in front of this entire bar, hook up with Jean back in their dorm room. He can do all that.

 _I'm glad we stopped_ , Jean said. _It would have been a bad idea._

Jeremy finishes his drink and goes to the bar to get another. The lacrosse team is here again, tucked into their own corner. Henry is with them, blond, tall, athlete-hot. Jeremy hasn't seen him since before winter break. Maybe that's the problem. The pressure cooker of it all.

“Hey.” 

Jeremy turns a little. It's not surprising to see Jean standing next to him at the bar, three empty glasses in hand. 

“Hi,” Jeremy says. 

“You do not look like you are having fun.”

“Don't I?” Jeremy asks, trying a smile. Even tipsy, it's strained.

“What happened to your post-win high?”

“I,” Jeremy says. There's no point in beating around the bush. “I've told you I go on antidepressants in the spring, right?”

Jean steals some of Jeremy's new drink. “Yes. An important anniversary, I think you said.”

“I would never say it like that, but basically. I just kind of lose steam. And exy's about to be over, which, as we've discussed, is basically my life.”

Jean's face betrays none of the skepticism he's previously showed when Jeremy has said that, but Jeremy doesn't doubt that it exists.

“Have you gotten them yet?”

“No,” Jeremy says. “Thus—this.” He gestures half-heartedly at himself. “My executive function is about to go straight out the window, but I get some of the side effects bad enough that I like to wait til after the season to start.”

“A martyr. Who is surprised?”

“It's not martyrdom. It's competitiveness.”

Jean steals more of Jeremy's drink. “You usually do a better job of faking it.”

“I'm not faking anything,” Jeremy says, taking his drink back just as the bartender arrives with Jean's refills. “Maybe you're just not as good at reading me as you think you are.”

“Maybe not.” Jean's smile is razor sharp. Exactly like it is on an exy court. Jeremy wants to ask him what part of this feels like a game to him. “Are you sure you don't want to dance?”

Jeremy leans back against the bar, sees the lacrosse team getting ready to leave. He debates texting Henry to wait up for him, maybe getting Henry's attention now and following him out of the bar.

“Yeah,” Jeremy says. “I mean, no. Yeah, let's go dance.”

He lets himself be led to the dance floor, but when they get there, keeps his wits about him—for once—and dances exclusively with Katie and Alvarez.

*

Pre-finals practices are intense and quiet. The Trojans haven't been to the final in two years, and thanks to the Ravens' implosion, this is their best ever chance of winning. But they need to beat the reigning champions to do it. The same reigning champions who beat the Trojans in penalty shots a couple weeks ago.

They're not going to play full games or even full halves. But Jeremy is glad for the season's practice anyway: it's the exact conditioning that made it possible for him to play for most of the first half and then come back at the end of the second. It's why Shereen and Alvarez have been so dominant in their respective roles all season. It's why Laila is in goal for at least forty-five minutes every game, often more. 

It's why they beat Penn. It's why they wrecked the Ravens. It's why they've brutalized so many teams' back lines. The Trojans have become relentless.

That's the ethos Jeremy takes into each practice, and then into their post-practice practices, and into post-post-practice practice conversations about everything everyone needs to work on. 

They take the night before the final off. Everyone piles into Jeremy's room—the last time, he tries not to think—and they watch a movie. He barely pays attention. He's too busy trying to take in the glasses Laila sometimes wears off an exy court, Benji's purple high school exy team t-shirt, the way Theo cuts his hair so that the top is just a little too long to be trendy. Shereen dozes off ten minutes into the movie, her head on Jeremy's shoulder. Katie's legs stretch over both their laps. On Jeremy's other side, Jean is actually watching the movie. He's in Trojan red like he always is these days; Jeremy tries not to look too closely at it, the place where sleeve ends and bicep begins, the spot under Katie's foot where Jean's shorts are riding up too high. 

Jeremy redirects his attention. Rogelio, Pilar, and Cas are piled in a beanbag they dragged in from someone else's room. Ro is braiding Pilar's hair, which is both hilarious and adorable.

Jeremy rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes. One more game. The Trojans host the Foxes. Whatever happens, it's his last game here, his last one with these people. He doesn't intend to fuck this one up.

*

Jeremy's mood hasn't shifted by the time he finishes changing out for the game the next night. He looks down at the little Trojan on his helmet, gold in a sea of red. He read the Iliad and the Aeneid for an intro English lecture his sophomore year, and the only thing he can remember about either book is how sad he was when Hector died. He wonders if this is what Hector felt like riding into that last battle, decides he's being typically melodramatic, and drops the helmet on the locker room bench.

“I'm going to say hi to the Foxes. I'll be back in time for my usual killer pregame pep talk, though, don't you worry.”

“Ask your boyfriend to go easy on us,” Rogelio says. “I don't want to have to break his other hand.”

Jean's head jerks up from where he's tightening some of the straps on his shin pads. “That is not funny.”

Jeremy leaves them to what is sure to be yet another intra-defense spat. He'll miss them too much if he watches it play out. 

Across the court and down the opposite set of stairs, the Foxes haven't split off to change yet. Jeremy gets greeted with hugs all around, which is more warmth than he really feels toward most of them.

It doesn't matter. He needs to be nice. He attempts to rearrange his face, smiles broadly at Kevin. “Kevin, you crazy fool. You ready to lose?”

“We won't,” Kevin replies, offhand confidence same as it's always been. “How is Jean?”

“Cool, calm, and collected.”

“As usual.” 

Jeremy tries to read anything else into that; he knows Kevin can be obnoxious and unpleasant and confident to the point of arrogance, and he knows Kevin abandoned Jean in West Virginia, but he also knows Kevin cares about Jean anyway. Kevin didn't ask Jeremy for anything the entire time they knew each other until he asked him to take on Jean. Jeremy can't understand it.

“I wanted to wish you all luck,” Jeremy says to the Foxes at large. “Regardless of what happens tonight, I'm proud to have played you at your best. And if you're spending the night in L.A., you're all welcome to come to our post-game party.”

“We aren't,” Dan says. “Red eye out of here. But thanks for the offer.” She offers a hand for Jeremy to shake. “I heard a rumor you were obsessed with me.”

“Who wouldn't be?” Jeremy replies, taking her hand. “May the best team win.”

Dan's smile shows teeth. “We will.”

*

When he reaches the door to the Trojan locker room on his way back from greeting the Foxes, Jeremy pauses before opening it. It's not because he has any qualms about going in, or any anxiety about this really being the last time he gets to do a pregame pep talk or anything like that.

It's because he hears his name.

“—because Jeremy really wants us to,” Laila is saying. “Think about how much he's reached out and helped all of you, or any time he stood up to a referee or an opposing player, or whenever he went out of his way to make sure you were comfortable here. Even if you fucked up during a game, even if you missed a practice. He's always had all of our backs. So let's fucking kill this. For him.”

Jeremy closes his eyes, hand still on the doorknob. He can't afford to get emotional about this right now. He needs to be as in his right mind as possible. He can cry later.

He pushes the door open.

“The Foxes say hi,” he says, hoping like he doesn't look as on the verge of tears as he feels. “Are we ready?”

Twenty-four somber faces stare back at him.

“Good,” Jeremy says, grinning. “Fight on to victory, then.”

*

It takes ages to score the first goal. Jeremy is unused to it; he's a good striker part of a strong attacking force, and it's rare that the first goal comes more than ten minutes into the game.

But this time, twenty minutes in, they're at nil-nil, Renee Walker protecting her goal and Laila protecting theirs. 

Jeremy isn't worried. Renee isn't as good as Laila or Andrew Minyard, and he's scored on both.

The play starts from the back. All the best Trojan goals do: Laila passes to Theo, who knocks the ball to Jean. Jean angles the ball toward Shereen, who narrowly avoids a check from Matt and passes to Katie. Katie passes to Jeremy. Jeremy doesn't see a gap, so he sends the ball backwards, ricocheting off the plexiglass and landing neatly in Jean's racquet. Jean cradles the ball for ten steps up the side of the court, twists away from Dan Wilds' racquet, and passes to Jeremy. Jeremy doesn't tip Renee off by looking. He pretends he's going to pass to Katie and shoots instead. Red. 

Around them, the court goes wild. USC students in fake Trojan helmets start chanting their fight song. It's only one goal, and it's twenty minutes into the first half, but it pushes Jeremy along anyway. The Foxes aren't at their best defensively right now. Jeremy and Katie need to put more goals on their side of the scoreboard. 

The next goal comes from a Fox fumble. A misplaced pass, a miscaught ball, a racquet check from Theo, and then the ball is in Jeremy's net and he's running down the middle. Hemmick comes at him; Jeremy promptly passes. When Katie gets checked, she lines up a ricochet for Jeremy. They weave their way around the PSU backliners, and then this time, Jeremy really does pass to Katie, whose shot lands just outside of Renee's reach. No time for hugs—the Foxes will have Minyard shut down their goal in the second half, which means the Trojans need to get a couple more before the break.

Rheman is shouting. Jeremy and Jean swap out, Pilar and Rogelio get on the court. Katie scores again. The Foxes pull one back. Pilar scores. The Trojans make more swaps. Laila doesn't let another ball past her before the halftime whistle blows. 

“They're always better in the second half,” Jeremy says, thinking back to all the footage of the Foxes he's watched and rewatched since the Foxes beat them. “We need to stay focused. We'll get a little more defensive at the beginning of the half, but the best defense, as they say, is a good offense, so Pilar, Benji, I still want you trying to get some points on the board. If we have the ball, it means they don't, so even if Minyard keeps you out of the goal, I want you to keep the ball, got it? Katie, Jean, and I will come on at the end, per usual, and Cas, we're giving you thirty minutes, and then Laila's back on for the end of the game. Questions?”

“Yeah, I have one,” Pilar says. “How the fuck do we get the ball past Minyard?” 

“I don't know,” Jeremy says. When he scored against Minyard in the semifinal, it was a matter of tricky racquet work and a feint. His signature, he likes to think. “I just pretended I was doing something else.”

“Not all of us have eyes on the sides of our helmets,” is her disgruntled response.

Jeremy looks at the rest of his team. Rheman watches him, silent. 

“Anything else?” Jeremy says.

No one says anything. They look up for it, Jeremy decides. They're at four-one with forty-five to go. They can do this. They just need to focus.

“One more thing,” he says. “I don't want to go to OT. Let's finish this in regular time.”

A quick huddle when they get back on the court. “One—two—three—TROJANS!”

The ref's whistle blows, and action kicks back off. 

The Foxes have Kevin and Josten back on the court. Minyard stands in front of his goal, deceptively insouciant. Jeremy presses his hands against the plexiglass, watching too closely, and is rewarded for it when Dev slams Josten against it and Jeremy has to take a step back. 

“Sit down, seriously, Knox,” Theo says. “You're going to give me an aneurysm, I swear—”

“Doesn't matter,” Jeremy says. “Season's over. Get your aneurysm.”

A few minutes later, Josten slides in front of Dev and Rogelio, catches a pass from Kevin, and puts the ball past Cas. She throws her arms up in indignation, and Jeremy gets why. The goal was clearly offside. 

He bangs against the plexiglass, but the ref barely looks in his direction, so he pushes past the rest of the subs to talk to the assistant referee on his side of the plexiglass.

“Josten was in front of both of our defenders when he caught that pass.”

“I didn't see that,” the assistant referee says. 

“You should've. It was offside. Look at the video.”

“I don't need you to do my job for me, Knox.” 

“I mean, if you're not doing it, someone has to.” 

The assistant ref looks at Jeremy for a moment. Jeremy glares back. He looks familiar. He's definitely been one of the officiators at another game. 

On the court, play is frozen while Jeremy and the assistant referee talk. The assistant ref signals the official referee, has a quiet conversation with him, and then—

Waves a yellow card in Jeremy's face.

“What?” Jeremy says. That's at least the second time this season he's gotten in trouble for this, and just like last time, he's _right_. “Are you seriously punishing me because you can't admit you fucked up?”

“Get back to the bench, Knox. Don't make this uglier than it needs to be.”

“I'm not the one making anything ugly!”

“No talking to referees when you're on the bench, and definitely no insulting of referees when you're not even on the court,” the head referee says. 

“That's—” Jeremy stops. The Foxes might pull even with the Trojans. If he gets a red card right now, he won't be able to help the Trojans score another, or, if the worst happens, take a penalty shot. “Fine.” 

“Good choice,” the referee says. “You have a reputation for being self-righteous.”

That's when Jeremy recognizes the assistant. This is exactly the same person who gave him a yellow card for challenging him months ago. He sucks at his job. Jeremy needs to file a formal complaint. 

Instead of maybe punching the guy in the face, Jeremy stalks back to the bench and drops down next to Theo, who laughs.

“Wouldn't be your last game in a Trojan shirt if you didn't get a yellow card for something stupid.”

“Fuck him,” Jeremy says. “We should still be at four-one.”

“Can't control dumb-assery,” Theo says, passing Jeremy his Gatorade. “Just do your Hulk thing when we get out there.”

On Theo's other side, Jean laughs. Jeremy tries not to read anything into it.

Josten's should've-been-disallowed goal gives the Foxes momentum, which is exactly what the Trojans don't need. The Foxes score twice more in the next fifteen minutes, putting them at four-four when Jeremy gets back into the action.

It's another struggle. Not only do the Foxes have their best defenders on the court, not only does Matt Boyd know Jeremy's go-to feint well enough to work around it, but even when the Trojans do break past the back line, there's Andrew Minyard between them and another point. 

The clock ticks down. Jeremy can feel overtime looming over his shoulder. Not again. Not like this, Josten's offside goal, that fucking useless referee. Something builds in his gut, rage maybe, desperation. He scoops up a pass from Alvarez, narrowly avoids a check from Allison Reynolds, keeps hold even when Matt's racquet bangs against his, and passes to Katie. 

Minyard saves, shouts something Jeremy can't make out at his backliners, angles the ball back at Reynolds. Jean intercepts it, passes it back forward, but this time Matt's racquet-check successfully knocks the ball out of Jeremy's net. Both of them chase it, but Minyard gets to it first, batting the ball back down the court to the Trojans' half.

A minute left. Frustration has Jeremy calling back to his dealer and defense: “Forward, guys, I said no OT!”

“Then fucking finish!” Alvarez shouts back. But moments later, when the ball comes in her direction, she leaps into the air, intercepts a sky-high pass to Josten, and keeps hold for long enough to get it to Dev, who curls his body around it. Passes to Jean. 

Thirty seconds.

The counterattack brings Jean up the righthand side, dodging Reynolds' racquet and sending the ball into Jeremy's net just as Matt drives his whole body into Jean's. Jeremy doesn't have time to look: he carries the ball as far as he can while Matt gets himself straightened out, glances over to see Katie struggling with the other Minyard twin, and, desperate, takes the shot himself despite the wide angle.

The ball sails through the air. Minyard catches on a second too late, abandons his massive racquet in favor of diving and reaching with his hand. 

It doesn't matter. The ball bangs against the wall. Red. 

Minyard turns around, staring at the goal like he can't believe what's the just happened. Jeremy can't, either. He looks up at the scoreboard. Four for the away team. Five for home. 

The whistle blows.

For a second, the only thing he can hear is his own heartbeat, thundering in his ears. 

No, not his heartbeat—his name: _KNOX! KNOX! KNOX!_

Someone is touching him. Jeremy whirls around: Jean, smiling that backliner smile of his. Jeremy reaches forward, weaving fingers through the grating on Jean's helmet to tug him closer. Their helmets bang together uncomfortably, but Jeremy doesn't even care. He feels weightless. His eyes sting. He might be crying.

“We did it,” Jeremy whispers, and then, louder, “We did it! We did it!” 

“We did it,” Jean says, voice quiet.

“Jesus Christ, that fucking pass, my God Jean, I fucking love you.” 

Jean's mouth opens, but he's cut off by the rest of the Trojans piling onto them, the plexiglass door opening, people streaming in, Coach, Bobbie, everyone else. Jeremy gets tossed up in the air by his teammates, laughs, gets down to go and show the Foxes good sportsmanship. He shakes hands, hugs Kevin and Matt and Dan, waves to Neil Josten. 

Then he lets himself get swept back up by his teammates. He feels like he's floating. He feels like he has everything he's ever wanted. Someone shoves one of the fake Trojan helmets on his head in place of his exy helmet; someone else kisses his cheek. He hugs Katie, buries his face in her shoulder for a moment to catch his breath.

“I knew it,” she's saying. “I knew it. When you said you didn't want to go to OT. I fucking knew it.”

“I honestly would die for you,” Jeremy says. “Never leave me.”

“You're the one who's leaving me! Who am I going to get to watch do those fake outs next year?”

“Don't talk about next year. We're going to spend the rest of the semester talking about this.”

Rheman catches him next, and that's what really sets Jeremy off. Knowing, almost wry, Rheman hands him a tissue. It's strange to be standing here, surrounded by all the people on this planet who he loves and cares about and who love and care about him. It's the last time he'll be on a court with all of them. That might be the real reason he can't stop blubbering. This is the last time he'll be out here with Dev and Cas and Theo and Benji and Shereen, Ro, Alvarez, Katie, Laila, Jean—

He looks up. They're separated by more people now, he and Jean, but, briefly, they make eye contact. Jean's expression behind the helmet he's still wearing is unreadable. 

“Aren't you happy?” Jeremy says, but his voice is lost among the cheers. He wants to pull away to talk to Jean. Just once, he wants Jean to say what he means. Just once, he wants to know what Jean is thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Kevin you crazy fool” is taken verbatim from TKM. I'm just making it his Homeric epithet from now on.
> 
> Just a heads up—due to a combination of mental health stuff, starting a new job, and needing to work on planning future chapters, I'm taking a short break before resuming posting. Don't worry though, 17 should be in your inboxes soon. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com). Please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	17. move in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just trust me

**part ii: mercy**

Jean is driving.

He's learned how to time his entire day around L.A. traffic, and he's lucky that Laila is arriving well into the evening today, so he can speed his car down the freeway unhindered to pick her up. It's a bright and quiet night, streetlights lining the freeway, sky cobalt blue on its way to midnight. Before he got on the freeway, Jean's windows were rolled down to invite in the breeze; now, he has the AC blasting, music thumping loud over it. He loves driving like this. He's no longer a body—just movement, a flash and then gone, this massive machine roaring to life under his touch and obeying him exactly. He used to push his car to its limits in West Virginia, too. It didn't matter who was in the car with him. It could've been Riko and Kevin in the back, or it could've been Thea next to him, or any number of other Ravens. Jean didn't care. He went as fast as he could without getting pulled over and never ever wore a seatbelt. If he went through the windshield, well, at least it would be a quick death.

In the spring he and Jeremy went out on road trips (Jeremy stiff in the passenger seat, clutching the handgrip, forcibly exhaling his way through mindfulness meditation while Jean found something inane to babble about), but more often it was Jean alone. 

It's strange, being alone. Jean Moreau has been rage and terror and agony and nothing, but rarely has he been alone. He can't push the car to its max with Jeremy—or maybe he can and just doesn't want to take the risk—but when he's by himself he can get on the freeway and push and push until he's all velocity. He wishes he could fly.

He turns the music down when he gets to the airport, loiters on the curb until he gets Laila's text that she's arrived, and gets out of the car to help her get her things in. He can't help but think about the last time he picked someone up from the airport—Jeremy looking strung out from his two weeks in Houston, his sheer terror when Jean started the car. Jean opening his mouth and telling him almost everything. Jeremy just taking it, steady even as his hands shook, like nothing Jean said could really rattle him. Before that, Jean liked Jeremy. After— 

It doesn't matter. Jeremy does not feel the same. Jean is young, attractive, talented, famous, and on his way to rich. He'll find someone else.

Laila arrives at last, pushing a cart containing two giant suitcases, an overstuffed carryon, and duffel bag in Jean's direction. She speeds up when she catches sight of him, waving, and Jean rolls his eyes.

“I don't think all of this will fit,” he says. “This is a luxury sports car, not a moving van.”

“We'll put it in the back. Come on, if my tiny little itty bitty car can fit all of this—”

“I am not convinced it can,” Jean says, trying to remember if her car even has a backseat. 

He pops the trunk open and helps her haul her bags in. He's right: the carryon and duffel won't fit. She tosses them carelessly in the back, and he takes a moment to accept that his upholstery will need cleaning after he's helped half his teammates move in.

“How are you?” Laila says once the car is loaded, reaching for a hug and startling Jean. “I actually missed you this summer, just, like, brooding in a corner being condescending.” 

It's one of the unsettling things about being a Trojan, all this easy affection: Jeremy was probably more affectionate than most, but the rest of them are also always touching Jean. An arm slung across his back, someone dropping onto his bed like it's a couch, seats pulled too close together around a dining hall table, elbows and shoulders bumping. It was hard to adjust to at first. When Jean got too close to a Raven, he was liable to get himself punched at least. If it was Riko, Jean was just asking for it. Once Jean made the mistake of accidentally brushing Riko's arm at dinner. As punishment, he got sent down a flight of stairs. He remembers practice after—broken ribs, an arm he couldn't raise properly. 

“Where'd you go?” Laila says, waving a hand in front of his face. “Hello? We're reconnecting? You were just saying how much you'd missed me?”

“Sorry,” Jean says, blinking the memory away. He has been thinking about Riko more lately—ever since the Trojans won, really. He keeps wondering if the Trojans could have won if Riko had been playing for the Ravens. He keeps wondering if he could've made himself play a game against Riko. Kevin did it. Twice. But Jean has never been as strong as Kevin. “I missed you.” 

He hugs Laila back, lets her squeeze a little too tightly, and gets in the driver's seat. She reaches for his phone to look through his music, and he gives it to her without thinking about it. That's new, too; it's not a reflex born of pain or fear. He just trusts her not to go through his things.

“I like this,” she says, putting the volume up a little. “Am I the first person back?”

“A week early.” Jean maneuvers them past a massive family with even more overstuffed bags than Laila and out of the airport parking lot. “Coach says Shereen will be here next.”

“Yeah, I wanted to walk her through her duties as vice-cap. You can come hang out if you want—I bet training solo for the last few months hasn't been super fun.” Laila pulls down the sun visor to scrutinize her appearance in the mirror, pushes a few stray hairs back into place beneath her hijab. “You know I almost ended up missing my flight? I got 'randomly chosen for questioning' and they spent a full half hour asking me who packed my bags other than me and what business they had in California.”

“You should talk about that in your preseason press,” Jean says, glancing in the rearview and then speeding onto the freeway. “First hijabi captain in college sports gets racially profiled. They will love it.”

“You know, I think I would actually rather die. Jesus, you drive fast.”

“Do you want me to slow down?”

“Nah, the sooner I'm in my bed, the better.” She switches to another song. “Is this playlist just for driving? There's like a hundred songs on here.”

“I drove a lot this summer.”

“Anywhere good?”

“For the most part I just drove.”

He went up and down the PCH, enjoying the view of the ocean. Sometimes he would stop and pull over, take in the smell of the sea. Every now and then he would go for a swim. But mostly he just drove, and if sometimes he skirted a little close to the edge of the road for comfort, Laila doesn't need to know that. 

“If I fall asleep, just leave me here,” Laila says, dropping Jean's phone in the cupholder and leaning back in her seat. “Seriously, this car is so nice. Why do I get athletic hijabs and you get luxury automobiles?”

“You know why.”

She snorts. “Yeah, I do.” 

She really does seem to fall asleep after that, though, because she goes completely silent. Jean didn't mind her chatter, but he doesn't mind letting his music fill the car, either. 

The drive back to USC is short this late, this long before the semester starts. It's warm out, and as soon as they get off the freeway, Jean rolls his window down to let in some of the summer breeze. 

He went out to the desert a few times this summer—disappointing alone, the kind of place you could get lost in and just never be found, which is not the type of temptation Jean needs even if he would have been overwhelmed by it a few years ago—and enjoyed the crisp, clean air. It's not quite the same this close to the city, but it's still nice. Just being outside is nice. Always having the promise of the sun is nice, after having been denied it for so many years. 

“We're here,” Jean says when he pulls into his parking spot. “Abdul.” 

He taps her shoulder lightly, and she startles awake.

“Shit.” She rubs one of her eyes. “I can't believe I have to move all my shit in tonight.”

“You can sleep in here if you like. I can come back to let you out in the morning.”

“Didn't know you guys had jokes in France. I thought the British stole them from you in the eighteen hundreds and just left you with, like, cigarettes and ennui.”

“Not inaccurate,” Jean replies. He thinks of Jeremy's cutting jokes about his own traumatic past. This would be a nice place for one of those. Maybe he should say he developed a sense of humor when Riko made a pun about breaking his fingers. Or maybe he can tell her exactly why he doesn't smoke cigarettes. “I'll help you. Come on.”

*

Jean's own move out of summer housing puts him back on the same floor as the other exy players, even though only he and Laila have moved in. Like most other fifth years, he gets a single in a suite with three other Trojans. Theo has the other single. Mo and Dev have the double.

The room is smaller than the one he shared with Jeremy all year and the one he spent the summer in, but the windows are bigger. He's grown used to being by himself this summer. It's the first time in his life that he's really tried it, being alone, and he takes comfort in his solitude the same way he takes comfort in swimming. It's quiet. It's bright. His window is south-facing, so his room gets bathed in sunlight most of the day. 

He likes it, but he likes it more when Theo moves in (another airport pickup—Laila was going to do it, but Jean offered). Jean leaves the door to his room open, less an invitation and more in acceptance of Theo's tendency to play loud music all the time.

Theo comes in anyway: “Wow, you really did pick the best room. That window is huge, dude.”

“That was my goal,” Jean replies, following Theo's gaze to the giant window. Outside, bright blue sky, not a cloud in sight.

“You haven't decorated yet or anything? This place looks like a jail cell.”

It's not Jean's fault. He still hasn't fully unpacked; most of his clothes are folded up in the suitcase Thea brought him from West Virginia after Riko died. 

“What would you recommend? Fairy lights and film posters?”

“I mean, it's a start,” Theo says. “Alvarez wants to go get a drink now that she's finally legal. You in?”

“I can drive.”

“No, let's take an Uber, I want you to get drunk. This place has the best happy hour margaritas you'll ever have. Come on, Moreau, when was the last time you let loose? You didn't even drink that much after we _won_ , and I know you're totally capable of getting trashed—”

Jean raises both hands in surrender. “Okay, fine, I am in. How nice is this place?”

“I mean, the basketball shorts are out of place, but your bougie suits would also be out of place.” Theo picks through Jean's open suitcase. “You don't have a single pair of like … pink shorts? Aren't you from the east coast?”

“I am from France.” Jean pulls a pair of shorts out of a drawer. “And West Virginia is not on the east coast. Do these work?”

“To be honest, I wanted to trick you into wearing something colorful, but that's fine too.” 

For his part, Theo is in navy and white. Typical straight boy clothing. Hardly colorful. 

There's a knock at the suite door. Theo lets Alvarez in. 

“You ready to go, Nowak? Oh, hey, Jean, I forgot you were here already.” 

“Jean's coming with us,” Theo says. “We're giving him a makeover. Like in a movie. Come help me find something in a bright color.”

“Jean is too goth to wear bright colors,” Alvarez says. “How was your summer? You were in L.A. the whole time?”

He was. He didn't see Alvarez once even though she's only around half an hour from campus in traffic, but neither of them points it out. 

“I went to Houston for a bit,” he says. “I helped Jeremy move in.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard. How is his place?”

The Houston Lightyears-owned McMansion Jeremy is renting has four bedrooms and a swimming pool. Jeremy didn't have enough sheets for all the beds. They spent a full afternoon at Target, Jeremy trying to figure out if the beds were queen or full based on pictures on his phone while Jean made suggestions for curtains. 

“Unnecessarily huge.”

“I feel like that's just everything in Texas. Did you guys go to NASA?”

“Yes. I thought he was joking about the astronaut thing, but he really is obsessed.” Jean rolls his eyes as if this is very annoying instead of terribly endearing. Alvarez seems to buy it, though, because she laughs. 

“I feel like we could've all seen Houston coming if we'd just looked at the signs,” Theo says. “Did you know his sophomore year, he had those glow in the dark stars on his ceiling? He got yelled at by maintenance or you would've had to put up with them too.” He tosses a t-shirt at Jean. “He had to stay up peeling them off the night before we were supposed to move out. Ro was ready to murder him.”

“He and Jeremy lived together?” Jean asks. Rogelio and Jeremy have had a contentious relationship the entire time Jean has known them—or at least, contentious for the Trojans, which mostly means they disagree and then hug it out. “Also, I can choose my own clothes.”

“Not quickly enough. Hurry up, I'm trying to get as drunk as possible while I don't have to wake up for practice in the morning.”

“Speaking of which,” Alvarez says, “Laila says to tell you she hopes you haven't touched a single illegal substance in the last two weeks because we're all getting tested on Monday.”

“My pee is clean. I would never cross her, have you seen Laila when she's pissed? Just dead quiet? I mean, I guess you probably have—hey Jean, you need help getting dressed, too?”

Jean strips off his own shirt—Trojans exy; Jeremy was right about the team taking over his wardrobe—and switches it for the one Theo offered. “You still haven't told me about Diaz and Knox.”

“I think Jeremy lived with a random his freshman year, so he and Ro only lived together that year,” Theo says. “It was Oliver's last year, so Jeremy made captain the next year and got his single, but that one year was just messy as hell. Ro was constantly in my room bitching about Jeremy, and that was when Jeremy was dating that guy Nikhil on the soccer team.”

“Nikhil?” Jean says.

“He was this super hot, like, total cliché of a soccer player,” Theo says. “Like, he literally would carry the ball around with him and start doing keepie uppies in elevators and stuff. It was so extra. Ro hated him. And, I mean, obviously he had a crush on Jeremy—”

“—who doesn't?” Alvarez cuts in.

“—and that just made it worse. I mean, like it's Jeremy, literally every single Trojan who is even a little bit into guys has been into him at some point and the poor guy is just completely oblivious. And Ro is like—it's understandable, I think. Imagine you have this roommate, he's vice-captain, annoying as balls, puts fucking glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. Just, like, so obsessed with exy and outer space. Huge nerd. And you have a crush on him, and he's seeing this super hot soccer player and also criticizing your form every practice.” Yeah. Imagine. Jean doesn't say anything; Theo shrugs. “I get why Ro hated living with him so much.”

“Every Trojan who is a little bit into guys?” Jean says. “Like you?”

“I still don't know if I had a crush on Jeremy or just wanted to be exactly like him, but as you can see, I'm nothing like him and Jeremy and I never got it on, so—” Theo raises an eyebrow. “Why? Jealous?”

“Please.” Jean might not be dateable, but he's definitely fuckable. “If I wanted you, I'd have you.”

Theo laughs. “That's the kind of confidence Ro should've had. Can you imagine if he and Jeremy ended up hooking up? God, the drama when he got dropped from the starting lineup—”

“That sounds very stressful, but also like exactly the kind of thing I wish I could've watched happen,” Alvarez says. “You want me to close my eyes while you change your shorts, Moreau?”

“I want to know more about this soccer player Jeremy dated,” Jean says, obediently changing his shorts. “Jeremy doesn't really seem like he would enjoy a relationship.”

“Oh no, he loved it. It was always kind of weird that he didn't really date after they broke up, but I guess he was really busy. I mean, there was that guy Peter, but that lasted, what, like three weeks?” Theo kicks Jean's shoes over from across the room. “Like, I'm too busy to date, and I can only imagine if you're, like, the captain—what do you think, Alvarez? Laila too busy to date right now?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Alvarez says. “Too busy to date? You're just scared of commitment. You'll find out, Moreau, he's hooked up with half of SDT. Now that you share a wall—”

“Don't slut shame me. I'm twenty-two, attractive, and busy, and as long as the girls are also into it I'm good.” Theo grins. “And they are _very_ into it, that's what you'll find out—”

“Gross. Just gross. You ready?”

Jean sticks his wallet in his pocket. “Are you sure you don't want me to drive?”

“Dude, you, really just, like, never have fun.” Theo checks his appearance in Jean's mirror. “Let's just get drunk and not worry about driving home. Who's getting the Uber?”

Jean can get drunk tonight if he wants. He doesn't have a relationship to worry about imploding if he says the wrong thing. Theo is mostly straight, and Alvarez is gay, and besides, Jean has never had an issue with hitting on people he isn't already attracted to and probably half in love with.

“I can,” he says.

*

Jean doesn't necessarily love exy. He isn't like Kevin or Jeremy. It's just inevitable. Part of his life. Vital, like eating and breathing. If he stops, he'll die.

He checks Katie with his racquet, catches the ball as it bounces out of her net, and sends it backward toward Laila. She shouts out some form of praise, and Jean forces himself not to react to it.

It's just that—Jean needs to be the best. He wishes he didn't. He wishes he cared less. It's not hard-wired: he liked exy as a child, but he didn't feel this all-consuming need to be the best in the sport. But it's there all the same, like part of his DNA. He thinks of the way people's brains change shape when they experience trauma or study for math exams. His brain formed around a heavy exy racquet, around pain, around someone else's need for him to be the best. No, not the best. Perfect.

He receives a pass from Dev, jogs down the court with it, and gets shoulder-checked by Theo for his effort. Theo doesn't succeed in getting the ball away from him, though, which makes Jean smile. He passes to Shereen. She and the strikers finish the play. Jean assesses himself for damage. Finds none. Clacks Shereen's racquet as they get back to half-court. 

“Good goal,” Laila calls. “This time I want Theo's team attacking. Fran, you've got this!” 

She's referring to Rogelio's replacement, a backliner from Florida who Jean is pretty sure hasn't spoken once since she got here. It's only her first practice with the entire team—she'll get there, Jean assumes. The freshmen did last year. So did he. 

Across the court, Fran shoves Pilar. Rheman whistles at the foul. Jean missed that sound—sneakers other than his banging against the court floor, Rheman's whistle, Laila shouting plays, Theo grinning on the other side of the court, looking for any excuse to dispossess Jean and mostly failing. 

“Restart,” Laila shouts. “Fran, no fouls this time. Theo, start the attack from the back. Go.”

Jean squares up.

*

The Major League Exy season starts a week before the college season, which means they're all free the night of Jeremy's first game. Laila has decided to turn it into a team bonding event, and so after practice they all pile into her room to watch.

“Not starting,” Alvarez says when they see the starting lineup. “But he's on the bench, look!”

And, as the camera pans over to the Lightyears' bench, it becomes clear that he is: blue and red stars cover one shoulder of the white Lightyears jersey. The helmet he's holding in his lap bears the number seventeen next to the Lightyears' logo, a cartoon shooting star. The logo is replicated on the front of the jersey.

Jeremy's face is completely blank. Jean recognizes it as that single-minded focus he gets before games. One of his feet taps against the floor. He's on the end of the bench, a few inches away from the next closest Lightyear. His hair is longer than it was the last time Jean saw him. 

“Here we go,” Theo says, passing beers around the pile of Trojans in Laila's room. “Hopefully he kills it, they love him, and we get a couple of plane tickets to Houston this winter break.”

The Lightyears do well in the first half, going up four goals before their opponents get one back. But Jeremy doesn't come on until there are only five minutes left in the game. He plays well enough, scoring a solo goal and avoiding a couple of nasty checks, and then the game ends and he clacks sticks with his teammates and their opposition.

Jean might be imagining it, but he thinks Jeremy's shoulders slump. Jean almost loses track of him in the crowd of Lightyears on the court. He looks so far from the Jeremy Knox who grabbed the grate on Jean's helmet last spring to shout into his face that they'd won. He looks like any other player.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Laila says. She changes the channel; Seattle's game has just entered its second half, and Rogelio is on the bench. “Let's hope Ro has better luck, right?”

There are murmurs of assent among the Trojans. Rogelio's body language is completely different from Jeremy's. He's sprawled on the bench carelessly in conversation with one of his teammates, helmet on the floor by his feet. The camera cuts back to the game as play restarts, and Jean scratches at a dry spot on his wrist.

“It's only the first game,” Katie says. “How many rookies go out there and kill it from day one? He'll just need to be proactive in practice and pick up more minutes as time goes on.”

“Well, he made all of us do that here,” Dev says. “Taste of his own medicine, right?”

He's joking. A few Trojans laugh. Jean looks at the phone in his lap, willing it to vibrate, but it stays still and silent.

“Okay,” Laila says when it becomes evident that Rogelio's team is going to lose. “Practice first thing tomorrow. First game's in a week, so we don't have any time to fuck around. Don't forget your cardio.” 

She stands up, ushers them all out of her room. Only Alvarez hangs back.

“You want to go grab a drink?” Theo asks Jean when they've gotten back inside their suite. “We can go to that place with those bougie cocktails you like.”

“You just want to flirt with that bartender.”

“She was way more into you,” Theo says. “Seriously. You're just going to sit here all night? Katie and Sweta say they're both down.”

Jean is pretty sure he's said a total of three words to Katie and Sweta the entire time he's been here. 

Theo senses his reluctance. “Come on, dude, I can't be the only guy in a group of girls.”

“Why not?”

“'Cause I'm trying to get laid.”

“If I come, they'll think we are on a double date.”

Theo pauses. “Oh shit. I think you might be right.” He follows Jean into Jean's room, opens the closet Jean has finally unpacked. “Come on. Where else are you going to get to wear all this nice clothing? You're not going to rock all these tight button downs at Sticks and Nets.”

“You spend entirely too much time thinking about my wardrobe,” Jean says, but he relents, picking through his closet for a shirt without a USC logo on it. There's no real reason to stay in. If anyone wants to talk to him, they can still text him. “What about Dev?”

“Dev is three weeks away from finally being twenty-one and got his fake taken away over the summer.” Theo rolls his eyes. “That's what he gets for trying to use it at a college bar in Boston. You're coming?”

“I can drive,” Jean says. “I don't want to drink too much.”

“An American hero,” Theo says. “Or, wait, French. Are you American? You're a citizen, right? Didn't you play for the US Court under-18s?” He looks at Jean's closet again, pulls out a black mesh shirt. “Can I borrow this?” 

Jean has to laugh. He bought the shirt last spring, wore it exactly once to a club with Jeremy, got hit on, went home alone. Well, not alone exactly. “That is gay club-wear, not cocktail lounge-wear.”

“What if I put a jacket over it? No? I feel like I'd look hot in this.”

“When we go to a gay club you can wear it,” Jean says, glancing down at his phone. Nothing. “We are not getting turned away from this place because your nipples are out.”

“All I have are floral button downs,” Theo complains. “I feel like I fell into the TopShop hole, you know? Now I'm just stuck. Like, I have what I have, and I can't just toss it all 'cause that's, you know, super wasteful.”

“Are you guys seriously not ready yet?”

Jean and Theo both look up; Sweta is standing in the doorway, arms crossed. She's a fifth year defensive dealer, has barely played in the last year, and already knows she'll be starting an MFA in creative writing next year. That might be why Jean has never talked to her. Unlike Jean and Theo, she is already dressed nicely. Katie towers behind her, heels making her even taller than usual. 

“You guys look too hot,” Theo says. “No girls are going to want to talk to us.” 

“I mean, they won't want to talk to you, but it's not because of us,” Katie says. “It's because you're a douchebag. Hurry up.”

Theo raises his hands in surrender, leaves the mesh shirt in Jean's closet, and goes back to his own room to get dressed. 

“You driving?” Katie asks Jean. “We can Uber if you want to drink, no big deal.”

“I don't feel like getting drunk,” Jean says, which is true. He looks down at his phone again. “It's no problem.”

Sweta grins. “Cool. I've wanted to get a ride in your car since last winter. And it's cool that we'll get to hang out a little bit.”

Jean is so bad at polite small talk. He says, “I'm going to get dressed,” and closes his bedroom door.

*

Theo is actually right about the bartender being much nicer to Jean than she is to Theo, but Jean is convinced that it's only because it's Jean's card she takes for the tab. He sits by the bar while Theo talks to some girl and Katie and Sweta flirt their way into free drinks, trying to make one cocktail last the whole night.

It's never that busy at this place. That's kind of why Jean likes it; it's far enough from USC and UCLA that not many college kids come here, and it's not really the kind of place where you'd get drunk and play pool or something. It's probably packed right after work, but this late, there are just a few groups of people milling about. At a table nearby, four girls in black cocktail dresses lean close together, quietly talking over their drinks. A few seats away from Jean at the bar, a couple clearly on a first date stare at each other and try to make small talk. 

“People always think this is a good place for first dates,” the bartender says. Her name is Lizzie. Jean wonders if she actually goes by that in real life. 

“I can understand that,” he says. “It's quiet and—” He looks around. Saying it's empty is probably rude. “—intimate. And the cocktails are nice.”

Lizzie smiles. “Thanks. But they're wrong, you know? There's not enough to make small talk about. You can't people watch. You have to be, like, really engaged in the person you're talking to if you actually want to sit in a quiet bar with them. It's like a third date place. Or, like, maybe you're married and haven't been out in a long time—”

Jean's phone vibrates. He looks down automatically, but it's only exy score updates for the last games on the west coast. 

“Everything okay?” Lizzie says.

“Yes, I—sorry.” He stows the phone in his pocket, stirs his drink with its tiny black straw. “You're right. This would be a terrible place for a first date.” 

“Is it totally out of line if I say your friend has incredible legs?” Lizzie asks. She's looking in Katie and Sweta's direction. Katie does have incredible legs, and the dress she's wearing shows them off.

“She is an athlete,” Jean says.

“A professional athlete? What sport?”

“College exy, but she will go pro. She is also recently single.”

“Oh. Wow.” Lizzie opens a bottle of bitters and ducks beneath the bar for other cocktail supplies. “Do you know what she likes?”

He's seen Katie drinking Sprite mixed with Malibu. He doubts she has much of a preference. “Women.” 

“That's not what I meant.” Lizzie looks back at him, cocktail mixer in hand, and then catches his expression. “You're making fun of me, oh my God. Am I really that obvious?”

Jean raises an eyebrow. “Katie is attractive. Anyone can see it. Not everyone comments on it.” 

“Well, if you're going to wingman me, maybe I can wingman you.” Lizzie looks around the bar. “Anyone here your type?”

The four girls at their table are laughing. Theo looks like he's in the most intimate conversation of his life. 

“Not really,” Jean says. 

“You're already taken?”

His phone vibrates. Jean slips it out of his pocket. “Not taken exactly. Just not looking.” 

“So that's not a girlfriend you're waiting to hear back from?”

“What?” Jean says. “No. Just a friend.”

Lizzie gives him a knowing smile. Jean looks down at his phone. At last, a text. 

_you still up/free to talk?_

“Definitely a girlfriend,” Lizzie says. “Or a boyfriend. Do you need to go?”

“It is just a friend,” Jean says. He tells Jeremy, _i'm not home rn but we can text._ “I don't need to go anywhere.”

“If you say so,” Lizzie says. She gestures to a table Jean hasn't been paying attention to. “What about those girls?”

_did you see my game?_

“They are very pretty.”

“You didn't even look.”

_abdul had a viewing party_

_thoughts?_

“Sorry,” Jean says. “Excuse me. I—”

“Told you,” Lizzie says. She's still smiling. “That's not just a friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said i'd be MIA for a while but turns out i had more of the next few chapters written than i thought! i might still disappear off the face of the earth this summer/when big bang and other stuff is due but for now i think we're back on track.
> 
> i'm on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com). please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	18. settling

All of Jean's credits from Edgar Allan transferred, so Jean only has a couple of classes left to finish his degree. He fleshes out his schedule with a film course and Introduction to Spanish, but he arranges all of it so that he has Monday afternoons completely free until practice. 

Before he meets with his therapist a short drive away from USC, Jean usually goes to an art museum or ducks into a movie at the nearby arthouse theater. It helps him relax before therapy, get his thoughts in order before he spills all of them. It's easier to talk about his past if he's just filtered it through the lens of some exquisite painting or a bleak documentary.

This week, his arthouse pick is a Swiss film about a family completely falling apart. He read about it online and plans to use it in a paper for his film class, so he gets there early, notebook in tow. He loves this theater—its faint smell of burnt popcorn, ancient multicolored carpeting meant to disguise spills and ripped up in some spots, even its uncomfortable seats. It's not as cushy as the nearby AMC, but there's something charming about it anyway. He didn't expect to find a place like this in L.A., unpretentious despite its artsiness. The arthouse in West Virginia was almost an hour away from campus. Jean was rarely allowed to go, and when he was, he drank in every plush red seat. 

This is different. He never would've come here a couple of years ago. Now he's here almost once a week.

“Are you a reporter?” 

Jean looks up, pulls out one of his earbuds. “I'm sorry?”

The girl talking to him looks around his age. She has some of the hair on the sides of her head braided close to her scalp; the rest of her hair curls above it, clearly artfully styled despite apparently being meant to look messy. She's wearing a yellow sundress that clashes with the edginess her hairstyle and nose ring project. 

“The notebook,” she says, gesturing to it with the hand that isn't holding a massive tub of popcorn. “I'm pretty sure reporters get their own screenings.”

“This movie came out three weeks ago,” Jean says, frowning. “Why would I be reviewing it now?”

“I don't know. That's why I'm asking.”

“I am not a reporter.” Jean stows his phone in his pocket and pushes into the theater. “I'm a student with a paper to write.”

“UCLA?”

“USC.”

“Oh, really?” The girl looks surprised in the dim light inside the auditorium. “I go to USC too. Film major?”

“Just an enthusiast.” Sports science, his real major, bores him to death. He studies and gets good grades because it's a habit. He takes in the information because it'll be important for his future, but now that he gets to choose his own schedule, he stuffs it with things he'd really rather be learning. “You?”

“Yeah. Just trying to be a movie director, you know, no big deal. Totally easy. Bright future ahead of me.” She pushes some hair out of her face. “Wait, I think I know who you are. You're an athlete, right?”

Just once, he wishes he could meet someone who didn't know a thing about him. “Yes. Exy.”

“I don't really follow sports, but I think I've seen you around campus with a racquet.” She smiles; she has a good smile, warm, scrunching up her eyes. “You don't mind if I sit next to you, do you? I always get kind of creeped out in empty movie theaters.”

“Be my guest.”

“You can have some popcorn if you want. I always get upsold here—I feel like it's so cheap to upgrade from a small to a large, and then I'm just a greasy mess for days.” She plays with a dangling earring. “I'm Rosaline, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Are you going to tell me your name?”

Jean blinks. Oh. “Jean.”

“Are you Haitian?”

“What?”

“Well, I'm Haitian, and every Jean I've ever met is, too, but your accent isn't really—wait, that wasn't offensive, right?”

“I'm French Senegalese,” Jean says. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Rosaline laughs. “Not disappointing at all. Do you know if this film is in German or French?”

Jean rarely sees films in French here, but he made an exception for this one. For his grade. “French.”

“Perfect. I can partially understand it and get annoyed at myself for never formally studying the language.”

“Don't worry,” Jean hears himself say. “I can fill in the blanks.”

“I mean, I'm sure there'll be subtitles, but if we're the only ones here and no one's going to kick us out—” Rosaline shrugs, does her pretty smile again, but it's marred a little by someone walking into the auditorium and taking the seat right in front of them. Rosaline's voice drops to a whisper: “Never mind. I'll fend for myself.”

After the movie (bleak and boring; Jean takes notes about the setting and the use of Swiss French and not much else), Rosaline commissions Jean to hold her things while she uses the restroom. Then she comes out, still smiling.

“That was kind of a doozy, huh? You want to grab a bite or something? We could talk about it.”

“I can't,” Jean says. “I have—” Therapy, but she doesn't know who he is, and maybe she doesn't need to know. “An appointment. And then practice.”

“Oh. Okay, well—it was nice meeting you, Jean!”

“Nice meeting you,” Jean replies.

It's not until he's searching for parking near his therapist's office that he realizes he forgot to ask for her number or even her last name. 

Well, he thinks, picking through his cupholder for enough coins to feed the meter, he's never been very good at making friends. He's probably just going to be friends with his exy teammates for the rest of his life. Which is fine. He could do worse than Theo and Laila and Jeremy Knox.

*

The Trojans' season kicks off with two away wins, University of Arizona and Pepperdine. They're in L.A. for their next game against UW, and they're probably going to fly through that one, too. Pilar for Jeremy is the only real change in their starting line; their subs need more work, but for now, they're good enough to finish out games.

Rogelio's replacement is a tiny seventeen year old who skipped a year and probably should be playing her exy at Palmetto State judging by how she won't let anyone touch her and is a little too violent with her racquet. 

She's really too small to be a backliner. Rogelio wasn't a skyscraper, but he was bulky. Theo, Dev, and Jean are all tall. She needs to put on weight if she's going to defend against some of the better strikers in their division, more weight still if she's going to be effective at all during championships in the spring. 

She reminds Jean of Neil Josten at Edgar Allan with a four on his jersey, too small for the position but insanely fucking fast, always rearing for a fight even dizzy and bruised and bleeding. Except he was playing through injury next to Jean, and Fran isn't injured, she's just small and mean.

Morning practices are usually full-team. Afternoon practices, they switch off between the weight room and court work. Today the defense is in the weight room, and Fran is doing a poor approximation of a deadlift. 

“That's all you,” Laila tells Jean, who is spotting her while she squats. “She's a freshman. She's playing the same position as you—attacking backliner. I could have Alvarez mentor her, but she's a sensitive case.”

In another universe, Jean could reframe his relationship with the Butcher's son as a mentorship. After all, he cleaned up Josten's scrapes and cuts, just like Thea cleaned up his. Just like Kevin did.

“Okay,” Jean says. “Your wish, as ever, is my command.”

Jean is on his third captain in as many years. It's strange. He never really expected to live past the first. He didn't intend to, anyway.

It's not the same. When Riko stepped into a room, he wanted everyone to kneel. He didn't make any of the Ravens feel like his equals: he was clear about the hierarchy between him and everyone else. He was the son—well, nephew, technically but even thinking that could get you a cane to the side of the head—of exy. Only Kevin Day was his equal, and even then, without Kayleigh Day around to stop it, Kevin was owned, too. To Riko, the Ravens were not teammates; they were animals, honed for the hunt. 

It wasn't the same with Jeremy, either. When Jeremy stood in front of the team for a pep talk or leaned against the wall during an unguarded moment, when Jeremy grinned from across the gym or shouted that one of them was fucking something up, it was not—there wasn't hierarchy. Even though he was in charge, technically. When Jeremy looked at them—or maybe just at Jean, but it certainly felt like the entire team was under his spell—it was like he breathed strength into them. Like he was the sun and they were all solar panels or plants or something else that needs the sun for energy. Jeremy looked at Jean, and just like that, Jean believed he'd be fine. It was a comfort. It had been a comfort since they met properly back in April.

Laila doesn't have Jeremy's raw charisma, but then, no one does. Laila is more natural in her role as a leader; Jeremy was good at it, but he liked exy more than he liked telling people what to do. Laila can do both without wavering. In one moment, she's a goalie; in the next, she's shouting at Jean and Theo about their formation, reorganizing the backline even as the opposing team hones in on goal.

It's why their first two games have gone so well. They even had a party on the beach near Pepperdine after their win there, beer, a bonfire. Laila didn't do the thing Jeremy sometimes did, walk around trying to talk to everyone, but she didn't need to. If she'd told them to run into the water naked, they would have. Jean has never seen anyone assume a role like that so naturally.

Now, Laila rolls her eyes. “Thanks.” She returns her weights. “Can you help her with—” She waves a hand at Fran, who is lifting an admirable amount of weight so incorrectly that Jean can feel sympathy aches in his legs. “Please? If she fucks up her knees now, she'll never end up playing.”

Jean goes over to correct Fran. She doesn't let him touch her to show exactly how she should do the lift, but she does a suitable facsimile of Jean's form, which is enough for Laila to flash him a thumbs up when he looks over at her, which is enough for Jean to take a water break.

*

After practice, the entire lot of them trek to the athletes' dining hall. Pretty much every team's practice gets out at this time, which means the dining hall is always packed, which means they nearly always have to fight for a table big enough to fit all of them. They drag two together, put too many chairs around it, and cover it in exy gear so no one steals their seats.

Jean slides into the seat next to Fran's when he gets back to the table with his food. She glances up at him.

“Hi,” Jean says. He really has no idea how to do this. He can't even remember how Jeremy got through to him. Just by being hot, probably. “How are your classes?”

“Fine.”

“Do you like L.A.?”

“Haven't really seen it.”

“That's true,” Jean says. “We are very busy. But the team sometimes organizes outings so we can see more of the city and surrounding areas. Like last week, in Malibu. Last year, we went to Joshua Tree.”

Fran saws at some of her food with a butter knife and puts too much of it in her mouth at once. Come to think of it, she has much more food than someone her size seems capable of eating. 

“You said you are from Florida, right?” Jean says.

“Didn't say anything.”

“Right.” But she is. He remembers reading it somewhere. Maybe when they were scouting new players last season. “Where in Florida?”

“Outside Miami.” She looks up from her plate again, makes eye contact with him. “You're from France.”

“Marseille, yes. Have you been?”

Fran shakes her head. “Never been out of the country.”

“A lot of Americans haven't.” Jean tries a smile. “Marseille is great. Very diverse. An immigrant city. A little like Miami. Do you speak Spanish?”

Fran shakes her head again. “Portuguese.”

Theo plops down across from them, his own plate just as overloaded as Fran's. 

“Hey, Fran, don't let Moreau fill your head with French bullshit. He'll have you saying, like, oh, zees Americaines are so uncultured—” 

“I do not sound like that,” Jean says. “And I also speak better English than you do. But yes, I will have you saying things like that.”

Fran tugs her plate closer like she's worried Theo will try to steal some of the food off it. Maybe to try to make her feel better, Jean sneaks some of the broccoli off Theo's plate and makes a show of eating it. But Theo's poor attempt at humor and Jean's at comforting her don't do much for her mood; she doesn't say anything else the rest of the meal, and when they leave the dining hall, disappears into the crowd.

“She's a piece of work,” Theo observes, digging out his car keys. “We should get her drunk and show her that video of the lacrosse team fucking up over and over again.”

“The solution to every problem is not getting drunk,” Laila says, catching up to them.

“How would you know?”

“Good point.” She unlocks her car door. “Are you guys going to the library? I need to get some work done, and I can't sit in my silent room anymore.”

“Moreau likes the rec center if we're gonna be talking,” Theo says. “I have all my exy shit, so I was going to drive if you want to come with.” 

“Jeremy and I were kicked out the library last year for talking,” Jean tells Laila, mainly because he thinks she'll find it funny. “By a _freshman_. It was so embarrassing.”

Laila laughs. “Honestly, Jeremy would. I'm a little surprised at you, though. You're usually so disciplined.” 

“Not when Jeremy is around,” Jean says, which might be more honest than he means it to be. Luckily, neither Theo nor Laila take it that way.

The rec center is one of Jean's favorite study locations; hardly anyone around here knows who he is or anything about him, and there's always a low level of noise that helps him focus.

“It's kind of dumb that you chose this exact moment to do your Spanish homework,” Theo says when they've made themselves comfortable on the second floor, pointing to where Jean is learning how to conjugate from a candy-colored textbook last updated in the late 90s. “Like half our team speaks Spanish, and you're here with two of the only people who aren't native speakers.”

“Abdul can help,” Jean says absently. “Alvarez says your Spanish is impeccable.”

Laila doesn't visibly react. “Alvarez said that? When?”

When she saw Jean doing his homework at breakfast one morning and laughed at his misspellings. “Recently.”

“What's going on with you two?” Theo asks. “Are you together or not?”

“I don't know,” Laila says. She doesn't look at either of them, highlighting something on her reading and making a note in pencil. “It's complicated.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning—I don't know.” She sighs. “Sometimes no one does anything wrong and it still doesn't work out.”

“Yeah, but that's obviously not the case here,” Theo says. “It's both of your faults for not even trying.”

“Agreed,” Jean says.

Affronted, Laila drops her highlighter at last. “I don't want to hear it, Moreau, you're the one who didn't even try.”

“I did try,” Jean says. He doesn't know how she knows about Jeremy, but they're close, he supposes. Whatever. If Jeremy can decide it wasn't a secret, so can he. “He wasn't interested. I moved on.”

“Wait, what? He didn't tell me that.”

Oh. 

Theo looks from Jean to Laila. “Who are we talking about? Not Rogelio?”

“Jeremy,” Jean says.

“Oh.” Theo rolls his eyes, like this was obvious. “Jeremy loves you.”

“Yes. Jeremy loves me. As a friend. And he cares about me. In his capacity as former captain of the Trojans.”

“And you're into him, like, in a dating kind of way.”

“I—” Jean looks away, embarrassed. “I was. But we talked about it, and he said he felt differently.”

“When was this?” Laila asks. “Why didn't he tell me?”

“A few months ago. And you will have to ask him that.”

“A few months ago? So during the season?” Laila frowns. “It must've just been his rule about sleeping with his teammates. If you'd asked after—”

“Believe me,” Jean says, “it was not the rule that stopped him.”

Her eyes widen. This is part of why Jean likes Laila. She's smart, always talks like she knows exactly what she's going to say. She's deliberate. Jean knows what that is like, the effect of years of people asking you to speak up, pretending they don't understand what you are saying.

“The hickey,” she says slowly. “That was you. Holy shit.”

“What hickey?” Theo says.

“Jeremy randomly had one when we got back from South Carolina—I assumed it was that lacrosse player. But no, this makes _way_ more sense, holy _shit_ , I have to tell—” She stops, picks up her pencil again, bores down on it a little too hard.

“Back to the topic at hand,” Jean says, “when do you and Alvarez plan on making up?”

“Some things just aren't meant to be,” Laila says. “The timing is just off. I don't know. I think it'll be less painful if we just—stop now, instead of after I graduate. It's just hard because we've been together for so long. But I mean, if what you're really after is homework help, first year conjugations are pretty easy.”

“Don't change the subject,” Theo says. “I still want to know if you two are together.”

“Look, once you can hold down a girlfriend for more than two weeks, you can have an opinion, but until then—”

“I could if I wanted to,” Theo says. “I mean, probably. I've never tried. I'm busy, though, you know? What am I going to do, date a teammate? You two are firsthand proof of how messy that is.”

“Are you really that busy when you've been gossiping instead of doing your homework for the last half hour?” Laila asks, giving Theo a very good approximation of Jeremy's “do what I say or else” smile. 

“Guess not,” Theo says, opening his laptop. “Cool, good talk guys, I look forward to getting Alvarez drunk and getting her side of the story—”

He shuts up at a second glance from Laila. Jean gets back to his conjugations.

*

Jean is on his fourth therapist since moving to L.A.

The first was Roger, the Trojans' team psych, a nice enough guy but not really a pro at talk therapy and anyway not there for regular sessions with the athletes. 

He referred Jeremy to Christina, a nice enough woman who does counseling for USC campus psychological services. She is overwhelmed with students and specializes in ADHD and anxiety. Not really Jean's biggest issues. 

She recommended Bryan, who is also very nice and who specializes in services for LGBT adolescents. Close, but Jean is too old for the approach Bryan goes for. He needs a therapist to yell at him, not pretend to be his best friend.

Jean found Amir on his own after searching for someone within easy driving distance from campus who specialized in what Roger and Christina were both sure he needs treatment for, which is Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Jean kind of likes the name of it, all those letters; it feels more real like that, a concrete little fucked up spot in his brain where everything that's ever happened to him is neatly gathered and can, over time, be neatly carved out.

“It's not really that easy,” Amir said when Jean told him that, “but if it helps you to think of it that way …”

“It does,” Jean said, and when Amir shrugged, Jean decided to stick with him.

“The semester's getting busy,” Amir says now. “How are you feeling about that?”

“Fine,” Jean says. “I like being busy.”

“Why's that?”

This is the thing Jean has always hated about therapy—answering all these questions. He knows what's wrong with him, knows where it came from and why. He always wishes they could just give him a pill to make him—forget, or—

“I feel like when I'm very busy, I can remind myself where I am.” Jean examines the back of his hand, his misshapen fingers. “At Edgar Allan, I played exy most of the time. If I was not with the exy team, I was with the captain. I never chose how to spend my time. Here, going to films and hot yoga, taking whatever classes I please, I never get confused.”

“Never? You always feel safe?”

Jean hesitates. Amir is waiting, but he's patient. Jean can take all the time he needs.

“In the lounge last week, I heard Japanese.” Jean runs his fingers over the inside of his wrist, where there's a row of cigarette burns over his ulnar artery. A dare. _If you want to die, then die. I'll help you._ He opens his mouth to continue, and surprises himself when French comes out: “I know it is absurd to fear a language. I know. It is not the country of Japan that hurt me. It was one family. But I was _terrified_. I completely froze. I did not even understand the words … and then I realized it was just anime.” He forces himself to switch back to English. “I had overheard some football players watching anime, and I couldn't breathe.”

Amir nods like he understands. It's one of the reasons Jean chose him—he's Moroccan, speaks fluent French, and always lets Jean talk in whatever language he wants. 

“How often do you get anxiety like that?” Amir asks.

“It is not anxiety,” Jean says. “Anxiety is not founded in reality. I was ritually tortured for _years_ , that is not anxiety, that is legitimately grounded—” Terror, but he can't say that. It'll make him sound too unhinged.

“I'm not trying to discount your experience. I just want to clarify which part of your body the reaction comes from.”

That's the one thing that frustrates Jean about Amir—he's obsessed with the mind-body therapy thing. When he discovered Jean's alienation from his own body (“You feel guilty for the pain inflicted on your body? Not on yourself?”) he prescribed a series of different physical activities. His first suggestion was pilates (painful), then karate (triggering, a very bad idea), and finally hot yoga (“It breaks down the separation between body and mind. You don't have a body the way you have a pair of shoes. You are a body, and you are a mind. This will help you rediscover that”). It's very L.A. and very expensive. The Trojans are paying for it—conditioning, Rheman called it when he pitched it to the board. Jean didn't know how to articulate his gratitude. It's rare that he's ever had to appreciate anything.

“It comes from my mind,” Jean says now. “Like everything else.”

“I want to encourage you to think of yourself and your body as one,” Amir says, his go-to phrase at the end of a session, usually accompanied by some reassurance that Jean is not culpable for his own abuse. “How's yoga?”

“Fine. Working.”

“Good. What about mindfulness meditation?”

“I still think it is complete bullshit.”

Amir laughs. “Did you give it an honest try?”

“Yes.”

“Then we'll try something else.”

When Jean leaves, he feels raw around the edges. He imagines it's what being sunburned feels like, not that he would know.

He gets to practice fifteen minutes late, takes a minute to himself to change out. Defense is running drills today. He wishes it were a weights day—at least then he could put his music on high and tune everything else out for a couple of hours.

Instead he needs to get his gear on and get on the court. The rest of the defense is already out there warming up. Jean joins in, jogging a lap solo to try and get himself out of the therapy mindset and into the exy mindset.

What feels like a heartbeat later, Jean is facing down the entire Trojan attack in a scrimmage at the end of practice. 

“Nowak!” he shouts, mid-struggle with Benji. “A hand?”

Theo is ball-watching across the court, looking much too fascinated with the game instead of with Benji, who is supposed to be his mark. Jean wrests the ball away from Benji through sheer force and takes his steps toward Theo.

“Pay attention to the game, not the fucking ball! Those are the kinds of mistakes that make us _lose_ —”

“Don't yell at me,” Theo says mildly, a reminder Jean needed. But Theo accepts the pass, sends it back to Cas, and steps back toward Jean. “You're such a dick sometimes, I swear—” 

Theo pays more attention after that, though, covers Benji properly and even catches Katie when she counterattacks while Jean is too close to the opposition's goal.

Jean glances up, catches Fran watching him from where she's defending that goal. He smiles at her in an attempt to be Jeremy-like. She doesn't react.

*

“So the semester is going well?” Jeremy says.

It's the first time their mutually hectic schedules have allowed for them to Facetime since the school year started. Jean leans back in his bed and nods.

“You saw that we won our two first games,” Jean says. “University of Arizona and Pepperdine.”

“I know. I'm jealous I didn't get to take you to Tucson.”

“Are you from around there?”

“No, but I've been a bunch of times. They have really good high school exy there, but it doesn't translate to U of A for some reason.” 

Jeremy is smiling his usual conversation smile. Jean wants to say something to get his expression to shift, but he can't think of anything.

“How is your season going?” he asks instead.

“Pretty well, I think.” Jeremy shrugs. He looks the same way he looked midseason last year, a little tired, blandly friendly. “I mean, I'm not getting starts yet, but I've made the most of my time on the court, I think. Like, I'm averaging a goal every ten minutes, which is pretty good.”

Pretty good for a player who plays forty-five minutes or more every game. Jean doesn't say it out loud. It's not the kind of shift he wants Jeremy's expression to make.

“What about you? Enjoying the single life?”

Jean opens his mouth to respond and then closes it again. He gestures around himself.

“Of course. No one snoring on the other side of the room.”

This elicits a laugh from Jeremy, who says, “I definitely don't snore. I'm a super pleasant roommate. Everyone says so.”

“I've heard otherwise.”

“From who? I'm delightful.”

“Diaz.” 

“Oh.” A pause. “I think in that situation he was the bad roommate and I was just—trying to deal with it.”

“I heard you were the nightmare, actually.”

Jeremy's laugh sounds strange. Jean can't figure out why this is so awkward. He leans back in his bed, lifting his phone above his head. 

“How have you really been?” he says. “I miss you.”

Jeremy blinks. “I miss you too. I've been—good. I mean it. I mean, you were here, you saw my place. It's big, right? I've never lived anywhere this big, even when—even before the accident. And it's just me by myself in this, like, big ass McMansion in the burbs—like, I'm pretty sure my neighbors don't lock their doors at night.” He sighs; some of the hair falling into his face floats up before dropping again. “But I can't get any food delivered. If I want a pizza, I need to hop on my bike and get it myself.”

“Suburbia is hell,” Jean says. “Or so I've heard.”

“Yeah, that's true, you haven't really lived in a suburb before. Let me tell you, if you can find a place close to whatever team you end up, just go there. It's so boring out here. I feel like I'm going to get murdered just because it's so quiet.”

“You are from the desert. That is probably the quietest place in the world.”

“I mean, I grew up practically in Phoenix. And then I was in L.A. for five years. It's, like, pretty reasonable for me to think it's weird how quiet it is out here.”

“Of course. I didn't mean to imply otherwise.”

“I know you didn't. I just—I'm just saying.” 

It's not the first time they've done video calls. Jean doesn't know why they can't get it right. He says, “You'll be happy about this. I made a new friend.”

“That freshman who has a crush on you?”

“What freshman who—” Fran, Jean assumes. News travels fast. “No, a film major. Her name is Rosaline.”

“You're friends with someone who doesn't play exy?” Jeremy laughs a little, shakes his head. “Unbelievable. A traitor to our cause. Seriously.”

“You slept with a lacrosse player.” Jean remembers his own embarrassing reaction to that. “That is objectively worse.”

“Than a non-athlete? I don't know, Moreau.” Jeremy's expression changes—his eyes narrow or something, and his brow furrows. “Wait, are you sleeping with the film major?”

“No. I've only met her once. We saw a movie together.”

“Like a date?”

“No! We ran into each other and ended up watching it.”

Jeremy is quiet for a while, and then he says, “What movie was it?”

“You have not heard of it. It's a Swiss French family drama.”

“Oh, I loved that one. Saw it last weekend at the AMC with the reclining seats. I snuck into the Avengers after just to stay well-rounded.”

“Hilarious. Do you even know where your closest movie theater is?”

“I assume there's a big chain one downtown,” Jeremy says. “Does it matter?”

“That depends.” Jean gulps down some Gatorade. “Do you do anything other than exy?”

Jeremy's mouth opens and then closes. He smiles, a little wry. “I've been spending a lot of time in my pool.”

“Alone?” Jean might enjoy his own company, but in his experience, Jeremy prefers a crowd unless he's in a bad mood. “Or with your teammates?”

“I don't know, yeah, teammates, alone, whatever.” Jeremy shrugs. “I saw that you scored against Pepperdine. I love a good backliner goal.”

“Katie and Pilar were otherwise occupied,” Jean says. He doesn't bring up the subject change. “Pepperdine have a new defensive dealer, and he is roughly the size of a school bus.”

“You still wrecked them, though.”

“Of course.”

It's silent. Jeremy isn't looking at the camera. Jean wishes he could poke Jeremy or something, regain his attention. 

“Jeremy.”

Jeremy sighs. “I'm sorry. I know I'm being kind of—I'm just really tired.”

“Then go to sleep, Knox.”

Another wry smile. “Got it. Thanks for the advice.”

“Jeremy.”

“Yes, Jean.”

Jean doesn't know what to say. He wishes that Jeremy were here in L.A. within touching distance instead of fifteen hundred miles away. He can't tell Jeremy, that, though—knowing Jeremy, he'd fly in tomorrow morning for a friendly fucking hug. 

“Go to sleep,” Jean says again. 

“Yes, Jean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> went to this bar the other day and had a cocktail i'm seriously still thinking about. bar had a rooftop also. if you're in the cambridge/boston area check out daedalus on mt auburn. thanks for tuning in to another episode of bar reviews with flybbfly
> 
> i'm still half asleep so theres bound to be typos. please leave a comment if you spot them or if you liked this chapter!


	19. rosaline

Jeremy and Jean have been talking for ten minutes without really saying anything, and Jean is still waiting for Jeremy's face to take on any kind of expression. In an attempt to get him to smile, Jean says, “Diaz got a puppy.”

Jeremy looks perplexed. At least it's a change.“Since when are you and Ro close enough for him to update you on shit like that?”

“We aren't,” Jean replies. “He sent Laila pictures, and she showed them to me.”

“Are you a dog person? That's weird. I would've guessed you'd be a cat guy.”

“I—” Jean finds himself at an inexplicable loss for words. “I wouldn't know. I have never had pets. The most I've interacted with an animal was Renee's feral cat. I like the idea of dogs.”

“I was just thinking about adopting a dog, actually. There's this shelter nearby that has this pitbull everyone's too scared to adopt, but he's adorable and I'm thinking of giving it a shot—you should come visit over winter break and help out, I'd pay for your flight obviously—”

“A pitbull you plan on rehabilitating,” Jean says carefully. “Is that a metaphor?”

The smile he receives in response is apologetic. Jean feels triumphant about it anyway.

“I have a type, I guess,” Jeremy says. “Not that I—I meant that I just. Always root for the underdog.”

“And yet you are playing for the best team in the country.”

Jeremy's sigh blows his mussed hair up into the air. Jean watches it float back down.

“Let's not call what I do playing,” Jeremy says. “Hopefully when playoff series start in a couple months they'll need me for rotation, and I can actually show them what I'm made of. Hey, you didn't answer my question.”

“What question?”

“Come to Houston for winter break. If you don't have plans already. My place is huge, and I'm tired of only seeing you through a computer screen.”

Jean opens his mouth to say yes, but it won't come out. Instead he says, “I'm spending Christmas with Renee again.”

“That's fine. I don't get days off until early January. North Dakota to Houston, come on, I've been learning how to cook, but it's no fun making fancy ten course meals just for yourself.”

Jean opens a flight website on his computer. “How are you having time to learn how to cook and explore animal shelters?”

Jeremy shrugs. “Life as a pro athlete is super easy compared to college. No classes, only have practice in the mornings and conditioning in the afternoons … plus I have all the money I could ever want. Might as well learn stuff, right?”

“What about sponsorships, press, things like that?”

“I mean, I did Nike last spring, and I'm going to be in some other stuff when playoffs start, but it's not like, I'm, like, I don't know, super popular or whatever. I mean—” Jeremy does a fake little laugh. “It's not like I'm going to be endorsing luxury cars, right?”

“Having your photo taken in a car and collecting a paycheck would not require you to drive.”

“Yeah, but who would believe me? Everything about me is, like, completely public knowledge.” Jeremy's jaw tenses suddenly. “Speaking of which. Uh—did you tell Laila about—you know. South Carolina?”

“I—” Jean doesn't know how to respond. “Not really. I alluded to it. She put the pieces together herself. Are you upset?”

“No, I just—I'm not ashamed of it or anything. I mean, maybe the way I acted. I just like to—keep that stuff to myself.”

Jean remembers Theo trying and failing to figure out anything about Jeremy's romantic history. Maybe that was by design.

“I'm not ashamed of it either,” Jean says. He can't know how much Jeremy even remembers. _I like everything about you_ , Jean had said, a confession, and Jeremy just—didn't respond. Pushed him down on a bed. “I thought you had already told her.”

“Oh.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't know you were—private. In that way.” 

Jean feels transparent. Maybe his embarrassment is obvious on his face, because Jeremy says. “Yeah, I—I mean, you get it. Everyone knows everything, right? I like to have agency over at least some of the stuff people get to know about me. That's why I didn't tell her. Not because of—anything else.”

“Of course,” Jean says, which drags a real smile out of Jeremy at last. Jesus Christ. Jean should not want this so badly. Maybe it's just that it feels like it would be so easy with Jeremy—like it wouldn't even be that different from this. Long conversations punctuated with—

Oh, fuck. He needs to get laid.

*

Jean's film class requires more background knowledge of old films than he actually has, so after practice one day, Jean puts on real clothes to go to the film society's screening of Raging Bull.

It's a classic, so while the auditorium is full, there is none of the urgency that accompanies rarer or newer films. Jean flashes his ID, helps himself to some cheap wine, and starts to make his way to the middle of the theater.

“Hey! Jean!”

He looks around, surprised to hear his name this far from the Trojan Court. 

“Rosaline,” he says. “Hi. I—how are you?”

“I'm good! Are you good? I didn't know you'd be here, we put these things on like once a month and we only ever get people showing up to the cutting edge stuff or the, like, Star Wars type things everyone's already seen.” Her smile fills the space next to Jean. She's in yellow again; it looks good on her. “I don't know if this is—I really wanted to—” She looks away. “I kind of forgot to ask for your number when we met a couple weeks ago, and I couldn't find you on the USC lacrosse page.”

“You stalked me on the USC athletics website?” Jean says. “Cute, but you got the sport wrong.” 

“Shit. Was it hockey?”

“Close. Exy.”

Rosaline laughs. “Whoops. I knew a stick was involved, at least. Come sit next to me, I have access to the film society's wine stash and this movie sucks if you're not kind of drunk.”

“I was under the impression it's beloved.”

“I mean, beloved, sure, but is it any good?” She shrugs. “I feel like this is one of those 'back in the day only white men could decide what movies were good' things. Would I choose to watch it on my own, given access to every movie ever made? Probably not. But in the context of the, like, cinematic universe—” She waves a hand in the air, presumably to indicate the, like, cinematic universe. “Sure. It's important.”

“So I'm going to hate this movie.”

“Probably. Hey, let me get your number now, before the movie starts and we can't talk anymore.”

They exchange numbers, and then they sit next to each other in the auditorium. Jean is hyper conscious of her next to him; unlike other people he's been to movies with, Rosaline is not interested in talking or exchanging glances during the film. She sits very still, head propped up on her hand, elbow precariously close to the edge of the armrest. She barely moves the entire time, and when the credits start, whispers to Jean that she needs to go help set up for a discussion.

It's getting late, and Jean hasn't had dinner. The cheap wine has gone straight to his head. He needs to eat; the athlete dining hall across campus closes in thirty minutes.

He makes an executive decision and ducks out of the room. He'll text Rosaline later. 

Jean gets his dinner to go and eats it at his desk, trying to recall everything from the film he just watched so he can make note of it in a future paper or class discussion. Instead he finds himself remembering things about Rosaline—her fingers against her jaw; the gold bracelets she wore, completely clashing with her silver nose ring; how her hair covered her wrist. 

It's good, he tells himself. He hasn't been in a proper relationship, has no idea how he'd cope with one, doesn't even really know how to make friends let alone date someone. The last person he wanted to try this with wasn't interested in anything past hooking up. Jean doesn't mind that, but—he looks out the window at the starless sky—sometimes it's not enough. He hooked up with plenty of people at Edgar Allan. It was fun, but most of them really didn't really know him. No one at Edgar Allan did, other than Kevin and maybe Thea, and Kevin is his own disaster.

He pokes at the dry steak he got at the dining hall. It was a bad move, getting the last piece of meat on the tray. Of course it was the worst one. He should've just gotten a sandwich and some salad and sucked it up. At least he can supplement with one of the protein shakes in their suite fridge.

Jean goes to bed early, feeling strangely defeated. He has no idea why: the film was fine, talking to Rosaline was fine. Dinner sucked, but it was worth the trade off. 

He picks up his phone. There's one unread message—Jeremy, one of his usual _how was your day?_ texts. Usually Jean remembers to respond to them before Jeremy will be asleep, but it's past midnight his time and Jeremy has early practices.

Jean texts back anyway: _uneventful, but you'll be happy to hear that i'm branching out. went to a film society event tonight. i was the only athlete in at least a quarter mile radius_

Jeremy's response is almost immediate: _nerd_

Jean needs to sleep. He puts his phone on silent and shoves it under his pillow. 

He can answer in the morning.

*

With the exy season in full throttle, Jean barely has time to think, let alone make extensive plans with Rosaline. They text constantly, but she has her own life. Jean shouldn't expect to push his way into it.

Except one evening he's being subbed out for Fran when they're already six goals up on UCLA, and he looks up at the stands and sees Rosaline waving at him from the third row. Jean smiles and waves back. One of Rosaline's friends points to Jean, says something that makes Rosaline laugh. He likes her laugh, even from this far away; she laughs with her shoulders. It's charming.

Jean pushes past the plexiglass door, clacks sticks with Fran, and goes up the stands to say hello to Rosaline.

“I'm sorry I have been a little unreachable lately,” he says. “As you can see, I've been busy.”

“I'm just glad midterms are finally over,” Rosaline says, climbing over a seat to get away from her friends, who are trying to listen in. “We have like two weeks before shit gets crazy at the end of the semester.” 

“Are you going home for Thanksgiving?”

“No.” Rosaline raises an eyebrow. “You're not flying to France for three days, are you?”

Jean laughs. This is so much easier than he expected it to be. “No. You'll be here Wednesday?”

“I could do a study date or something.”

“A study date?” Jean says. He pictures the library, with its dusty stacks and shush-happy freshmen. “What does that entail?”

“I have work to do. I'm sure you do, too. We can do it together.” She tip toes and leans close, a hand on Jean's shoulder for stability. She can't really whisper in his ear with his helmet on, but she does a decent impression of it. “Plus I know a great spot in the stacks.”

Jean opens his mouth to answer and finds that he can't. Rosaline laughs at him, takes her hand back. “You need to get back to your team.”

“I do,” Jean says. “Need to, I mean. I—will see you Wednesday, then?”

When he gets back to the Trojans bench, Laila gives him one of her captain-y looks. 

“What was that?”

“A friend,” Jean says. 

“Is she coming to our party?”

He doesn't know how to tell Laila that Rosaline doesn't know anything about him other than that he's French and plays exy. He says, “We are not at the meeting friends step yet.”

“Going to a huge party full of cheerleaders and exy players isn't meeting friends.”

“You are very nosy.”

“Don't clam up! I love hearing about my friends' love lives.” 

“I've noticed.” Jean takes his helmet off, combs his fingers through damp hair. “We met at a movie theater, and we have not really had the chance to get to know each other yet. So I'm going to take that chance before you get to meet her.”

“I'm glad you're moving on,” Laila says. “I wish that we—” But she doesn't get to finish the sentence, because just then, a UCLA backliner slams Fran into the plexiglass next to them and instead of drawing a foul, Fran aims a punch at his gut. “Oh, fuck. Please don't give her a red—”

Jean raises an eyebrow. Laila is admirably focused.

“I can do press with you,” Jean says. “I'll answer the Fran questions. As your resident reformed foul-happy backliner.”

“You're a lifesaver,” Laila calls, already halfway to where, on the other side of the plexiglass, a fight has broken out.

Jean leans back to watch. It's nice to not be the one involved in the drama for once. He looks back at Rosaline, whose friend nudges her. Rosaline waves again, and Jean waves back.

*

“So what are your Thanksgiving plans?” Jeremy asks.

They're not Facetiming today; Jeremy is riding his bike, and Jean likes company when he runs, so they've opted for a phone call instead of music. 

“I'm staying here,” Jean says, a little out of breath but not running so hard that he can't talk. Renee is having Thanksgiving with the Reynoldses; she has been nervous about it since Halloween. “I told you I do not like turkey.”

“I just booked my flight out there,” Jeremy says. He doesn't sound like he's working hard at all. Jean pictures him idly riding his bike up a suburban street. “Thanksgiving with the Alvarezes. You're not interested at all?”

“We barely talk,” Jean says. He can't even remember a conversation with her that wasn't about exy. “How long will you be here?”

“Leaving Thursday night,” Jeremy says, a little regretfully. 

“Come to campus after dinner.”

“I don't—” Jeremy says. “There might not be time.”

Jean reaches a hill, climbs it slower than he'd usually like to. He thinks of Fran and speeds up. Can't let a freshman steal his spot. “Do you have a ride back to the airport?”

Jeremy laughs. “I was going to wing it on a city bike. Laila offered, but I figured I should let her hang out with the Alvarezes so they can … I don't know. Work things out, I guess.”

Saying “I want to see you” seems trite. Or maybe just transparent. The ground levels out beneath him. Out of breath, Jean says, “I can drive you.” 

“And not go to dinner?”

“Alvarez and I are not that close,” Jean says, which makes Jeremy laugh again. Jean stops for a moment, puts both his hands on his head. This is why he prefers swimming. Out in the L.A. sun, somehow still hot even though it's November, running turns into literal fucking hell. Especially with Jeremy laughing into his ear. Maybe this was a bad idea. 

“How's your run?” Jeremy asks, like he's reading Jean's mind. “You go anywhere good?”

“Just the rose garden. You?”

“There's this trail that goes from my suburb into downtown Houston. It's really picturesque. If you feel like riding a bike when you're here, I'll show you.”

“Or we can drive.” 

Jean swigs from his water bottle. If he starts back toward campus now, he'll get there in time for a quick swim before the swim team takes over the pool.

Jeremy is talking, saying something about being excited to see Alvarez's extended family. Jean listens to him for a moment longer before turning back toward campus at top speed.

*

Jean really does not understand the appeal of study dates. Instead of getting to know the person you are meant to be on a date with, you have to sit in silence and read. Rosaline chose a non-quiet section to sit in, but they still don't do much talking. Jean stares at a blank document on his computer for so long he thinks he might actually go mad. Then, to look like he's doing work, he writes a heading at the top: 

_Jean Moreau_   
_Dr. Nicole Botha_   
_Introduction to Film Theory_   
_29 November 2018_

Then he types all the notes he took on Raging Bull. Then he opens the Raging Bull Wikipedia page. Then he looks over at Rosaline, who seems completely absorbed in some giant tome on film criticism.

When she notices him looking, she stands up. “I need to get something from the stacks.”

“Okay,” Jean says, looking back at the blinking cursor glaring up at him from his Word document. He has a long weekend to work on this and no desire to do it now; practically no one else is at the library today, having either gone home for the holiday or found something interesting to do with their day off. Nearby, a grad student is surrounded by books and looks like he hasn't slept in days. At another table, someone in a USC Med sweatshirt dozes on her keyboard. Otherwise, it's mostly just undergrads lounging with giant coffee cups. Someone even looks like they might be reading for pleasure.

Rosaline hasn't come back yet. Something clicks for Jean: he was probably supposed to follow her.

He doesn't really know where she went, but he knows where the film crit section of the stacks is, so he leaves his stuff next to hers and looks for her. 

He finds her with an armful of books on the fourth floor. There isn't much space here, and it's very dusty with low ceilings and bad lighting, but he's had sex in worse places. Not that he plans to have sex with her here. In the middle of the library. When he has a perfectly good bed.

Jean reaches for her books, sets them down on a step stool.

“Hi,” Rosaline says. She's smiling again, wearing yellow again. When he isn't near her, Jean barely remembers what she looks like, just pictures her filling space with pure joy like the warmth of the sun. 

“Hi,” Jean says. 

Rosaline looks down, then back up. Jean has the feeling he's being checked out. He checks her out, too, commits her to memory—the strap of her dress slipping off her shoulder, dandelion yellow against dark brown; white teeth biting into a plush lower lip; a quiet giggle; her hip, soft against his hand. How warm she is. How he wants to smile, too, just being in her space.

He says, “Do me a favor.”

Rosaline's head tilts to the side. She wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss her, too. It's amazing how clear this can be. How simple.

“Don't look me up.” 

“So mysterious,” Rosaline says. She rests her hand on Jean's shoulder, uses it as support to tip toe. Leans in. “Whatever you say, Jean Moreau.”

She says his name right. It's a comfort. Jean leans down. The last person he kissed—

It doesn't matter. He kisses Rosaline, and it's completely different. It's not complicated. She's a pretty girl who's into him, and he has no reason not to want this. He likes her. She's smart. She's funny. She's sweet. He likes her.

“How much work do you really have to do?” Rosaline says.

“I haven't done any work since we got here,” Jean confesses, which makes her laugh and lean up to kiss him again.

*

“Hey,” Alvarez says, piling several plastic containers into Jean's arms. “My aunt made sure I didn't let you leave without a ton of food. I told her you didn't like turkey, so it's just trimmings. You'll like them. And you should come for dinner next time. This is super rude.”

“I don't speak Spanish,” Jean says. “And I do not love spending all my time with strangers.”

“Give him a break, Alvarez,” Jeremy says. He has one of his trademark cheery smiles on. His cheeks are flushed, probably from the alcohol and the company. He's wearing a sweater that looks very soft. He's started growing out a beard. The stubble works for him. “Thanks for having me. Again.”

“You know you're always welcome,” Alvarez says, hugging Jeremy more tightly than Jean has ever seen anyone hug anyone. “Wish you'd just move back here. You can live in my dorm room.”

“I'll see if the Lightyears will let me work remotely,” Jeremy says. “Can't be any less effective than I am now, right?”

It's a bad attempt at a joke. Alvarez doesn't laugh. “Have a safe flight.”

When they get into Jean's car, Jean says, “You can have the food. I am not—”

“I literally came here for one day and I have a whole carry-on suitcase and a duffel bag,” Jeremy says, putting on his seatbelt and curling his fingers into the handgrip. He's the only person Jean has ever seen use one. “What do you think they're filled with? I miss Mexican home cooking.”

“You should learn how.”

“There are some things I already know how to do, and then there are things that, like, literally only grandmothers can do. And Alvarez's abuela is a really good cook.” 

He falls silent after that, shifting in his seat and then going still.

“You ready?” Jean says.

“Yeah. LAX, here we come.”

Jean drives. Jeremy stares out the window. 

“How was your flight here?” Jean asks. “Aren't you tired?”

“I can sleep on the plane.” 

“You really only get one day off?”

Jeremy nods. “We get a longer break in January before playoffs start. We don't even really get much time off around Christmas. That's why it works so well for you to come out after North Dakota.”

“Renee says hello, by the way.”

“She's great,” Jeremy says. “Tell her I said hi.”

Jean watches the speedometer, careful not to hit his usual highs. He's too used to flying down the road to the airport. He wonders how Jeremy would react if Jean just sped up, but he doesn't want to put Jeremy through it without warning or deal with the awkwardness if he asks, so he just stays in the middle lane and maintains the same speed as the people around him.

They don't talk much. Maybe they've said everything there is to say over text and Facetime, or maybe Jeremy is just still tipsy from Thanksgiving dinner and tired from flying in this morning. It's not Jeremy's usual drunk modus operandi; typically he can't shut up when he's had too much to drink.

When they pull in at the airport, Jeremy sighs.

“So this is it,” he says, looking out the window instead of at Jean. “Time to go back.”

“You were here for less than twenty-four hours,” Jean says. “You barely left a mark.”

When Jeremy doesn't move, Jean adds, “Do you want me to park? I can walk you to the gate.” 

“No, that's—I don't need that.” 

Jeremy gets out of the car, and Jean does too, partly because he's not sure Jeremy actually knows how to open the trunk.

“I,” Jeremy says, slinging his bag over his arm. “I'm sorry. I'm—pretty drunk, honestly.”

“Right,” Jean says.

“I just don't want—” Jeremy looks back at the airport doors. Jean avoids making eye contact with the security guards. “I feel like we barely got to see each other. Forty-five minutes is nothing.”

“We can get tired of each other winter break,” Jean says. 

This feels all wrong. He spends so much time talking to Jeremy via some sort of screen that he thought once they were finally in the same place they'd get to touch. But Jeremy is holding his duffel close, hugging himself, looking back and forth between the airport doors and Jean's car like he might get in the driver's seat and make a run for it.

“Jeremy,” Jean says. “What's wrong?”

“I just really miss it here.”

“Do you have practice tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Or I would've—obviously I would've stayed longer. I'm sorry, I just—I'm drunk, and I have to pee, and I might miss this flight, I need to go.” Jeremy presses his hand against the closed trunk. “I wish we could just—I don't know. Never mind.”

“Okay,” Jean says. “Are you sure you do not want me to walk you in?”

“I'm fine. I just—” Jeremy meets Jean's gaze. Jean can't read his expression—or maybe there isn't anything there to read. Jeremy has always been kind of moody.

Then, with no warning, Jeremy's arms are around Jean's waist, Jeremy's head tucked into the side of his neck. Jean freezes; for a moment it feels like every nerve ending in his body is on pause, waiting for his brain to tell them how to react.

He hugs back. It's _Jeremy_. Of course he hugs back.

“I'm sorry I'm using being drunk as an excuse again,” Jeremy says. His stubble is rough against Jean's throat. “I'm not really that drunk.”

“Drunk Jeremy usually has more trouble keeping his thoughts to himself.”

Jeremy laughs. “I'm sorry. I'm really tired, and—I miss you. Obviously. I'll see you in Houston.”

“Just one more month,” Jean says. “You have survived worse.”

“Have I?” Jeremy pulls away. His attempt at a smile is admirable. “Kidding. I know I'm a tragedy.”

Jean finds himself wanting to laugh. It doesn't make any sense, though, because none of this is really funny. “Maybe you are drunk.”

Jeremy checks his phone. “You think the airport bar'll be open this late on Thanksgiving?” 

“No.”

Jeremy looks up, stares at Jean a little too intently. “I really—” Jeremy says. “I have to go.” 

“One more month,” Jean says again.

“You miss me, too, right?”

Jeremy's hair floats in the breeze, too long, unfettered by a bandana or a helmet. It's too dark to make out much of his expression, but his eyes are bright, and Jean can fill in the blanks: perpetually flushed cheeks, the beginnings of a beard, hopeful raised eyebrows. 

“Of course,” Jean says. “I miss you all the time.”

This time Jeremy's smile seems like it might be real. He hugs Jean again, kisses his cheek, and disappears through the terminal doors.

Jean gets in his car. He wants to bang his head against the steering wheel. Instead he just drives back toward USC as fast as his car and traffic allow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's ramadan i'm a mess. also i'm on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com).
> 
> please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	20. trojans

“Come here for a second,” Laila says. They're in the boys' locker room moments before the Trojans are supposed to go out onto the court. “Theo, you too.”

Jean follows her up the stairs to see what she's pointing to out the door. A group of men in black suits are sitting together. Jean's chest squeezes, but he pushes the feeling down.

“Who are they?” he says. 

“Scouts,” Laila whispers. “I'm pretty sure that guy is the one who recruited Jeremy.”

Theo squints. “How can you even see them from here?” 

“I went up there while everyone was changing out,” Laila replies. “The Lightyears aren't looking for a goalie, though.”

“They're looking to fill out their training camp,” Theo says. “I don't want to ride the bench in Houston, but I'd go for winter break.”

“If they like you, you have to sign for them,” Laila says. “That's the training camp contract Jeremy signed.”

“Shit, really? One of those people could be our whole future.”

Jean takes a step back into the locker room. “We are not going to get spots on their teams if we get distracted.”

“I know. I just wanted to show you.” Laila grins. “We're already practically guaranteed to make championships. This gives you all another reason to try tonight.”

Jean already has a reason to try, but he accepts this anyway, and when he gets on the court, obediently plays his hardest. Thirteen minutes in, he finds himself too far forward and in danger of getting checked by a Stanford backliner called Frederickson. Instead, Jean nearly scores off a pass from Shereen, a move Frederickson wasn't expecting and that has him chasing down Jean as well as Shereen and the strikers. That creates a big enough gap in Stanford's defense that USC get a couple more past them before Jean gets subbed off for Fran.

Fran is so much smaller than Frederickson that Stanford seem to keep him on just for the height advantage. Still, she's fast enough to make her steps count, and while she doesn't get a rare backliner goal, she does create space for the Trojan attack. 

When the Trojans get back on the court for the second half, it's with Fran in Jean's place, staring down the opposition. She has made tons of progress in the last few weeks—while she still doesn't really talk, she trains alongside Jean and sometimes Alvarez, and she'll be switching to a heavier racquet over winter break. 

A Stanford striker, Wilson, finally beats her way past Fran and Dev. She was Fran's mark, slid right out from between her fingertips, and is about to accept a pass from her offensive dealer and probably score. 

“Fran!” Laila screams from next to Jean on the bench, even though there's no way Fran hears her on the court, and anyway Cas is probably saying the same thing. Laila bangs against the plexiglass. “Grab her fucking shirt! Don't let her score!”

Laila wants a shut out. She always wants a shut out. It's a goalie thing. Jean can appreciate it. 

Fran glances up, makes eye contact with them briefly, and then surges forward.

“There we go,” Laila says, settling back down. “There's that speed. Sprint, you little—oh, fuck.”

“Oh, fuck,” Theo echoes, because rather than continue running and aim to intercept a pass or check Wilson whenever she catches the ball, Fran chooses to slam her whole tiny body headfirst into Wilson's back. Wilson topples over and stays down. The referee's whistle blows several times in quick succession.

Laila rushes onto the court, says something to the referee. The referee entertains her for only a moment; then he shows Fran a red card. 

“Holy shit,” Theo says. “I thought you said she was good.”

“She is good,” Jean says, standing up when Rheman casts a significant look in his direction. “I never said she would not play dirty.”

“That wasn't dirty. That was violent conduct. She'll probably miss our next couple games.”

“Good thing we spent last season training to play full games, then,” Jean says, pulling his helmet on. 

He passes Fran walking off the court while Laila continues to argue with the ref. Fran doesn't make eye contact with Jean, even when he puts out a hand to stop her.

Jean doesn't have time to humor her. If he is not back on the court when play restarts, the Trojans will be down a backliner. 

“What happened?” he asks.

Fran doesn't say anything, just stares at the floor until he has to move.

“We'll talk later,” he says, a promise, and gets back on the court.

*

The Trojans win anyway. It isn't a shutout—once Wilson got back to her feet, she took her penalty perfectly—but it's a pretty good showing against a pretty good Stanford team. At least, that's what Laila says as she orders a fleet of Ubers to take them all to Sticks and Nets. It's cause for celebration. They've played well all season. They've qualified for championships. They have a good chance of making semifinals at least, if not retaining their trophy.

Jean doesn't love Sticks and Nets. It's the opposite of the type of bar he'd go to by choice, too loud and sticky, too packed with college athletes. He prefers quieter places that serve more than just well cocktails and Bud Light on tap. 

But it's a good place for a crowd, even he has to admit. They're very good at hyping up USC athletes here, rarely even check IDs if the athletes in question look familiar to them. Tonight is no different.

“That new backliner of yours is really something, huh?” Pete the bartender says, making the mountain of drinks Alvarez and Jean requested. “She's wild. I thought you were gonna be like that, Moreau, but instead you're just this giant efficient machine. That tiny thing got you guys your first ever red card! That's insane!”

“She's still new,” Alvarez says, dry. “She hasn't internalized the Trojan golden rule yet.”

“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you?”

“Don't get caught,” Jean says. He's been a backliner since he was a child, and he can count his red cards on both his hands. That doesn't mean he doesn't play dirty. He just does it well. “Thank you for the drinks.”

“Should we talk to her?” Alvarez says, carrying one of the trays back to the corner of the bar the Trojans have colonized. “I mean—she likes you, right?”

“Does she like you?”

“More than you do,” Alvarez says.

“I do not—”

Alvarez waves her hand in the air. “Don't worry. It means I get Jeremy in the divorce.”

“What?”

Alvarez laughs. “Nothing. Bad running joke he and I have.”

“About me?”

“About me. And—” She looks across the table to where Laila and Shereen are sharing a massive plate of chicken wings. “—my relationship.”

“Oh.” Jean doesn't really know what that means. “Let's give her a drink.”

“Does she drink?”

“I don't know, but she is sitting by herself, so we can find out.”

Alvarez drops her tray at the biggest table and passes Jean two drinks off it. They walk to Fran's dejected little corner together.

“Hey,” Alvarez says. “How come you're not sitting with the group?”

“Don't want to,” Fran says.

“You want a drink? Jean, give her your drink.”

Jean hands Fran one of the drinks and blinks when Alvarez takes the other out of his hand. He assumed she would grab a third for herself. 

“This is yours?” Fran says.

“I can get another one. Enjoy.”

She chugs the entire thing in one go. It would be impressive if it didn't remind Jean of his own first few forays into drinking. Desperate. Enjoying the way it took the feeling out of his body. 

“I don't know why I'm here,” Fran says, glaring at the table. “Obviously this isn't the right place for me. I should just transfer.”

“If this weren't the right place for you, Coach wouldn't have signed you,” Alvarez says. “Personally, I like a little bite in our backline. You just need to learn the tricks so you don't have to headbutt someone in the middle of the court.”

“I got a red card. Laila's gonna be pissed.”

Alvarez shakes her head. “You should give Laila more credit. She cares about whether her Trojans are okay way more than she does about our record.”

“Trojans don't get red cards.”

Jean remembers his own desperation not to pick up a red last fall. Even as a relatively skilled player, he worried getting one would destroy the entire fragile framework he built up as a Trojan.

“Evidently we do,” he says. He hopes Fran understands what he's getting at. 

“I should've gone to PSU. They wanted me.”

Jean remembers thinking that, too, except PSU didn't even want him. “Why did you choose to come here?” he asks.

“Because South Carolina is only a half day's drive from Miami.”

Next to Jean, Alvarez sighs. She holds out a plate of mozzarella sticks. “Eat up.” 

Fran hesitates, but then she accepts the mozzarella sticks, too, eats them more quickly than Jean can keep track. 

“The Foxes are supposed to be good for people like me.”

“If PSU were right for you, you would be there,” Jean says. “Just like I would.”

Fran looks up at him at last. “How would you know?”

“You have seen my scars. You know how.”

“Come and sit with everyone, Fran,” Alvarez says. “No one is mad at you. They all want to make sure you're okay. And share some food and maybe dance, if you're up for it. Come on.”

Fran finally listens to this and stands up. She tucks herself into the booth next to Katie, accepts more bar food when she's offered it, and looks up at Jean when he stands again.

“More drinks,” he tells her, and makes his way toward the bar, then doubles back and sneaks outside.

He really just wants a breath of fresh air. This isn't a role he occupies naturally. He has no siblings. He made his first friends a year and a half ago. The only people he has comforted in his life are Kevin and Jeremy, and talking Jeremy down from an anxiety attack is much easier than trying to get Fran to relax.

Jean slides past the ineffectual bouncer to the little pen where a group of USC students who can't possibly be athletes are vaping. His phone tells him that in Houston, the Lightyears won their game. Jeremy scored in the eighty-third minute, but he only came on in the seventy-ninth. Four minutes after being subbed on—it'd be a good takeaway if he'd played more than eleven minutes total. 

It doesn't matter. Jeremy made the choice to go to the Lightyears. No one forced him. People probably warned him. He might even be happy there, with all his free time and lack of responsibilities.

Except, Jean thinks, remembering Jeremy's reluctance to get out of Jean's car, he probably isn't happy there. Or at least, he was happier here.

“Hey.”

Jean looks up. It's probably because he was just thinking about Jeremy, but, absurdly, he thought it might be him.

Alvarez holds out a drink. “Sorry I stole yours. I mean, not really sorry, but I feel like that's the polite thing to say.” 

“Thanks,” Jean says. He takes a sip. It's a gin and tonic, which is probably what he would have ordered for himself. 

“You good?” Alvarez asks.

It's a strange thing to hear from her considering he is pretty sure this is the most time he has spent with her alone since he moved here. 

“Yes,” Jean says. “Just thinking.”

“About Fran?”

“About—” He can't really say Jeremy. He is supposed to be over Jeremy. He is seeing someone new. “PSU.”

“You stayed there for a while when you left Edgar Allan, right?” 

Jean inclines his head.

“Why didn't you stay? I mean—no offense to them, but they had nine fucking people, they definitely could've afforded another backliner. Especially one like you. And I always wondered, like, you know Kevin Day, you're friends with Renee Walker and Neil Josten—”

“I am not friends with Neil Josten,” Jean says. He has no idea why she thinks that. “And there is too much history there.”

Alvarez swirls her straw in her drink. “Yeah, I can kind of understand that. Still. Isn't it kind of the perfect place for someone who left the Edgar Allan Ravens with his hair ripped out and stitches in his face?”

He doesn't even remember meeting her when he looked like that. There is a lot he doesn't remember from his first few months here. The sharp sting at Riko's death, the big windows in Rheman's guest bedroom, Jeremy sitting on the edge of his bed—he remembers all that. But otherwise the days blurred into each other. The Trojans, even the ones he knew by name, were a homogenous blob of people who would never understand him or like him but whose team he had to break into anyway.

And here he is. Comforting them. Of all the ways he thought this might go, this is probably the one he expected the least.

“I was surprised how sensitive you were with Fran,” Jean says. 

“I have a little sister. She has really bad asthma and stuff. Why would you think I wouldn't be sensitive?”

“Because you just asked me why I did not stay at exy's halfway house when I had stitches in my face and my hair ripped out.”

Alvarez laughs like Jean is joking. “Yeah, but you don't care.”

“Why would I not care?”

“It's not like you hide it,” Alvarez says. “You're, like, obviously proud of how far you've come or whatever, and I mean, obviously you should be—but you don't hide it. I know people with scars, even like, totally innocuous scars, like, from, like, cat scratches, who won't wear short-sleeved shirts. Wait, _do_ you care?”

“No,” Jean admits. “What happened to me is not a secret, nor would I want it to be.”

“That's what I thought.” Alvarez finishes her drink. “So why do you think I'm such an asshole? Did Laila poison you against me?”

Jean stares at her, baffled. “I don't think that.”

“Then why did you turn down Thanksgiving when I know you have nowhere to go? And it's two years in a row, and I could kind of understand it last year, but this year Jeremy and Laila were both there and you adore them, so the only other explanation I can think of is that you can't stand me.”

“So you think Laila poisoned me against you, which is why I did not want to spend most of one of my only days off with people I do not know speaking a language I do not speak and eating food I do not eat?”

“It's not just turkey,” Alvarez says. “There are trimmings. Did you like the leftovers?”

“Yes, they were very good, thank you.”

“See?”

Jean huffs out a laugh. How is he supposed to explain why he's avoided Alvarez? It hasn't really been deliberate—Theo is his partner, Jeremy was his roommate, and Laila is captain. When he first started getting friendly with Laila, it was because she and Theo are attached at the hip. “Okay. Fine. I thought it would happen organically since you and Jeremy are so close, but when it did not, I didn't bother to fix it because you are very loud, and you talk a lot, and I usually end up being closer with quiet people.”

“Your best friend is Jeremy Knox.”

“He's quiet outside of a crowd.”

“No he's not. He never shuts up.”

“He does with me,” Jean says. He thinks of a drive they took up to the Cheeseboro Canyon, the GPS chirping directions while Jeremy stared out the window, some obscure pop song coming out of the speakers. Every now and then he would twist in his seat to look at Jean and say something ridiculous—they're always ridiculous, those little thoughts that pass through Jeremy's head on the freeway. “Sometimes.” 

Alvarez's eyes narrow. “Oh,” she says.

“Oh?”

“Nothing. That's not—I don't really buy your excuse, just so you know. If you end up somewhere good next year, like Miami, New York, somewhere cool, I want you to know I'm going to show up outside your apartment and force you to hang out with me.”

Jean finds himself smiling. “I'm sorry. I didn't realize you noticed.”

“How could I not notice? We literally got drunk together in August and you still only talked to Theo.”

“I really am sorry. I do like you. It just takes me a long time to make friends.”

“You're so annoying,” Alvarez says. She wraps a hand around Jean's wrist. “Let's go back inside before Theo gets jealous.”

*

“So I finally watched Moonlight,” Jeremy says. Jean's phone is perched atop a stack of books; Jeremy peers out of it, all his attention on the screen. “You were right. Seriously just breathtaking.”

“Breathtaking?” Jean repeats. “Did you actually like it?”

“Jesus, of course I did. That last shot—” Jeremy launches into an explanation of the significance of the last shot of the film, including a rash assumption that Jean loved the film so much because he likes the ocean. It isn't completely wrong. 

“I was unaware you were capable of paying so much attention to a movie.”

“Well, you said you liked it,” Jeremy says. 

Jean blinks, surprised at his own surprise. He hates it when Jeremy blurs the lines. Actually, he hates how little he understands whether the lines are blurred at all. It's Jean's fault: Jeremy is Jean's first ever friend, his _best_ friend, the entire foundation upon which Jean built his recovery—but sometimes Jeremy will say something like that, or look at Jean like Jean can possibly be the answer to any of his problems, and Jean will start to lose his resolve. Maybe this is just how friends talk. Maybe Jeremy is like this with everyone.

Don't say it, he thinks. Say anything else.

“I do,” Jean says. “Probably my favorite film.”

“I can see why now. You know I'm more of a book person, but if all movies were like this, I'd find out how to get to the AMC on my bike.”

Jean tries to find the happy medium between a laugh and a sigh. “I doubt they played Moonlight at any AMCs.” 

“What did you do this week? It's so weird, like, not knowing every single thing going on in your life.”

“It's a good thing, no? It keeps the mystery alive.”

Jeremy laughs. “All of you is a mystery.”

Something bubbles in Jean's chest. Jeremy knows everything about him. There's no reason for him to still, _still_ think Jean is a mystery. Jeremy is the one who—

He just keeps thinking about the way Jeremy's breath always hitches when Jean touches him. The way Jeremy fisted a hand in the front of Jean's shirt and pulled him down like he was just learning to take what he wanted.

“You know me pretty well,” Jean says. 

“I guess. It's just different knowing you from halfway across the country. I liked being your roommate.”

“I liked it too.” Jean picks at a spot on his desk where the wood is uneven. It's nice having a single; Jean won't contest that. And he loves L.A., which is frankly a ridiculous city, big and sprawling, poorly planned, with a mayor who thinks he can reshape it through charisma alone. Jeremy was right about it. About the beach, the desert, everything. It's beautiful. Jean can't imagine going back to a place like Castle Evermore, landlocked and underground. Here, vitamin D abounds. Jean can swim in the pool every morning and in the ocean any time he wants. But he does miss having Jeremy on the other side of the room instead of a three hour flight away.

“Anything good planned for the weekend?” Jeremy says. His tone sounds off somehow; it has since Jean answered the call. He remembers the desperate hug Jeremy gave him before leaving L.A., like he was boarding a flight to his own execution. “I was thinking of doing a day trip out to the beach, but it's, like, not even really warm enough anymore.”

“I actually have a date tonight,” Jean says, checking his watch. He's going to be late if he keeps talking to Jeremy. “The weekend will develop based on how it goes.”

“A date? Really? With who? That freshman? I saw her red card, by the way, almost wish I'd been there for that—”

“I'm twenty-three, Jeremy, I do not think I should be dating freshmen.” Jean should get ready, but he doesn't want to hang up, and he doesn't want to change for a date while he's FaceTiming with Jeremy. “Remember I told you about that film major? Rosaline?”

“Oh, yeah, I thought you said you guys weren't going to meet up again.”

“I ran into her by chance a few weeks ago,” Jean says. “She is sweet.”

“Cool,” Jeremy says. “A film major. That's cool.” He pauses. “What do film majors even do? Sit around and talk about, like, the, like, profound sadness of man as demonstrated by, like, Kill Bill or something?”

“Partly.” He pictures Rosaline doing that. Both times he's watched a movie with her, she sat alert but completely still. Maybe she just absorbs them and never talks about them at all. “Partly they try to make their own films.”

“So you're going out with a girl who's going to be the next Steven Spielberg.”

“I doubt that is the comparison she would make,” Jean says. “But yes.”

“Cool,” Jeremy says again. “Cool. So when is it?”

“Soon, actually. I should go.”

Jeremy opens his mouth, then briefly closes his eyes. “Jean, I—”

Jean waits, but Jeremy just says, “Have fun.”

“Jeremy.” Jean scratches harder at the uneven spot, manages to get some of the flame resistant coating off. His heartbeat sounds disturbingly loud, exaggerated, like he's been running. “I do not have to leave.”

It's an opportunity. Jeremy stares at him. For a moment, Jean thinks the video has frozen. Then he thinks Jeremy might understand exactly what Jean is asking him.

But then Jeremy blinks and says, “No, of course not. Tell her I said—I mean, she doesn't know me. Don't tell her anything.”

“Jeremy—”

“No, it's—” Jeremy stops, laughs a little. It sounds wrong, that type of laughter coming from him. “You're not the first person to hang up on me this week.”

It is not what Jean thought he would say. “Who else hung up on you?”

Jeremy's smile is wry. “My agent.”

“Knox—”

“No. Stop. Have fun tonight. One of us needs to, right?”

“Jeremy—”

“Bye, Jean.”

Jeremy hangs up. Jean stares at the blank face of his phone for another moment before giving up.

*

The date goes well enough that, only an hour or so after Jean hangs up with Jeremy, he's in Rosaline's bed.

“I have to confess something,” she says as Jean curves down to kiss her. “I looked you up.”

Jean freezes a centimeter away from Rosaline's clavicle. “What?”

“Okay, you have to admit, it was a little bit—like, I thought you were a murderer or something! You could've told me it was just sports drama with your old school.”

“Sports drama?” Jean says. He rarely feels self-conscious about his scars, but just now, completely nude while Rosaline calls their source “sports drama,” he wants to cover up. What is it about USC students that makes them want to talk during sex? If they all just shut up for once, they'd get a lot more done. Sex is supposed to be fun, a good stress release, not fucking chit chat hour.

“I mean—that's not a good way to put it, I guess.” She wraps a hand around the back of Jean's neck to bring him close again. “I don't get how violent hazing turns into this—” She brings her other hand to the claw-shaped scar on Jean's shoulder, then up to where his cheek had to be stitched back together. “But I figured you were shy. Until you had your hand up my dress in public, obviously—”

Jean's cheeks go warm. “I just wanted to have one relationship that was not—” Tainted by Riko. On eggshells. A disaster. “—about that.”

“It's not about that,” Rosaline says. “I just like you.” She smiles again, kisses Jean, presses a hand against his abdomen until he flops over on his back. “That poor captain, though … having to put up with that, and then the first time he loses a game he kills himself? Poor Riko …”

Jean jerks away from her, colliding painfully with the wall. “What?”

“Oh. I'm sorry. I guess you were probably friends—unless—was he the one who—?”

“I need to go,” Jean says. He can't get his thoughts in order enough to come up with an excuse. He just needs to be out of this space. Poor Riko. Poor _Riko_.

“Jean, what is it? What's wrong?”

“I have to go,” he says again. He scrambles for his clothes, tries to pull his sweater on.

“Jean, that's inside out. Jean. _Jean_.”

Rosaline has hold of both of his arms. Jean stops trying to get dressed for long enough to look at her. 

“He was the one who did this,” Jean says, gesturing to his shoulder.

“Just that one?”

“All of it. I—” He can't tell her everything. He doesn't even know how much of this is public. He hasn't looked it up. Jeremy and the other Trojans are one thing, but he barely knows Rosaline. “It was not just hazing. It was ritual abuse courtesy of—him. I do not feel bad for him.”

“Oh my God,” Rosaline says, letting go of his arms. “Oh my God, Jean, I'm so sorry, I didn't realize—”

“It's fine,” Jean says, getting the sleeves of his shirt straight and pulling it on. “I didn't tell you. It is my fault.”

“It's not your fault. Jean. I'm sorry. I should've waited for you to tell me. I was just—”

“It is normal,” Jean says, shoving his feet into his sneakers without untying the laces. “To look up who you're dating. It is completely normal. I could have been anyone.”

“If you're not pissed at me, then sit back down. We were having a really nice time, and we literally never have mutual free time, so—”

“I just need some air.”

“Are you having a panic attack?”

“No,” Jean says. “I—” This doesn't feel like panic. It feels like revulsion. Disgust. He wants to throw up.

“I'll come with you then,” Rosaline says. “If you're not mad. Let's go for a walk.”

“Okay.” Jean agrees without really thinking about it; he is halfway out the door when he says it, and then he has to wait while Rosaline gets her clothes back on. It's all very awkward. 

“Where do you want to go?” Rosaline says. “Can you finally show me the athlete suites?”

“They are not that nice,” Jean says. He lets her hold his hand. Or maybe he's the one who grabs for it. He doesn't even know. “And my suitemates are really annoying.”

She doesn't speak the whole way back to his building. Maybe she likes it out here at night as much as he does. Campus quiet instead of bustling. Sky above dark and still, the lightest of breezes. 

Rosaline stops him when they finally get to the building.

“I don't have to go up,” she says. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

She is so sweet. Jean isn't even upset anymore. “I'm fine. I want you to come up.”

Rosaline smiles, tip toes to kiss him. He's reminded of her pushing him onto his back in her room. Maybe they can pick back up where they left off, before he triggered himself into what was definitely not a panic attack.

“Hi!”

Oh no. Jean turns around; behind him, having just witnessed him kissing Rosaline, are Laila and Alvarez. Alvarez's hair is mussed, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. She looks, Jean thinks, like she's been crying.

Laila is the one who spoke and who now leads the way up to Jean. She holds out a hand to Rosaline.

“You must be Rosaline,” Laila says. She has her impress-the-press voice going. “We've heard so much about you. I'm Laila, and this is Alvarez.”

“Hi,” Alvarez says, hugging herself. “Nice to meet you.”

“Laila Abdul, right?” Rosaline says, beaming her Rosaline beam, like she could light up the whole night. “You're a legend. I'm obsessed with you.”

“I only like hearing that from other women of color,” Laila says, smiling back. “Are you guys going upstairs?”

“Yes,” Jean says. “Ideally alone.”

“Oh, we won't bother you,” Laila says. “We were just—” She looks to Alvarez, then back at Jean. Her jaw works. “We went out, and we're coming home.”

“You're a couple?” Rosaline asks.

Laila blinks like she is surprised at the question. “No.”

“Can we go inside please?” Alvarez says.

Oh. 

When they finally get to Jean's room (after an impossibly long elevator conversation in which Laila asks Rosaline about a thousand questions and Rosaline cheerfully answers them while Alvarez stares at the corner and waits to reach their floor), Rosaline says, “Your teammates are great.”

“I think they just broke up,” Jean says. “It was a little awkward, no?”

“Speaking of which,” Rosaline says, settling on Jean's bed and tugging her sweatshirt off. “This might be the wrong time for me to ask, but—we're both clear, right?”

“Clear on what?” Jean asks, lying back. He still feels a little rattled. He almost just wants to go to sleep.

“I just mean—you're really sweet, but I'm not really looking for a boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

“It's just—this is my last semester of college, you know? I don't know where I'm going to be next year, like if I'll be in L.A. or New York, and I just want to focus on my career instead of, like, feeling like I'm making decisions that I know will affect multiple people.” She leans over next to him, presses a hand against the rough skin by his waistband, brushes her fingers over his navel. “That's okay, isn't it?”

It's not a surprise, really. Jean bites down his bitter response, turns onto his side, cups her face in one of his hands, and kisses her. “Of course.”

He wonders if she made that decision before or after she looked him up, before or after his obviously unhinged response. If this was always what she wanted, or if she made the call after she found out how horrifically fucking damaged he is. 

“I can seriously—I can tell you're overthinking this,” Rosaline says, pulling away a little. “I just—you said relationship earlier, and I wanted to clarify. It's not about you. Really.”

“That obvious?”

“Yes. Give me some credit. I'm trying to—I just want to make sure I'm treating you fairly.”

“Okay,” Jean says. It's not like he has the excess emotional space for a girlfriend, not really. He likes Rosaline, but it wouldn't be fair to her to drag her into his shit even without everything that happened before he came here. How is he supposed to start a relationship with this girl—an incredible girl—when he's so gone for someone else? “Me too. I want to treat you fairly too.”

“Good,” Rosaline says. She nods very seriously. “We're good?”

“Yes. Of course. I'm not looking for a relationship, either.” 

“Okay,” Rosaline says. “Okay. Good.”

*

“So … you totally have a type,” Laila says, settling next to Theo across from Jean at lunch the next day. “Have you met Rosaline?”

“I saw her when she was leaving this morning,” Theo replies. “Definitely has a type.”

“What is this type supposed to be? People who are not so interested in me?”

“No, I meant—I mean, come on. Every time I've seen that girl, she's literally been dressed like the literal, actual sun.”

“And?”

Theo laughs. “Come on, Jean. You are not this dumb.”

“Also, that smile.” Laila sighs. “Honestly, Jean, what a stunner. Jeremy is a cutie, but she's an upgrade. Wait, did you say she's not into you?”

“She doesn't want her career hampered by a love life,” Jean says. “Completely understandable.” And yet more evidence that he is incapable of forming those types of connections. If they even exist—he isn't convinced he has seen one in the wild. “And familiar, right?”

Laila winces. “Not cool.”

Theo looks from Laila to Jean and back again. “What is he talking about?” 

“Me and Alvarez broke up last night. For real.”

“ _What_?” Theo says, too loudly, attracting stares from the other athletes having lunch. Then, quieter: “What? Why? What happened?”

“We were just—we were out at that Mexican place she likes, and she ordered a margarita, and then she was like, why are you looking at me like that, I'm allowed to have one drink, and I was like, yeah, I'm not looking at you like anything, and it was just—I just looked at her, and the only thing I could think was that I'm so tired of fighting. And I just feel like, if you're tired of fighting, you probably just don't even care enough to keep going, right?”

She says it all completely clearly, sitting up straight, dry-eyed. Jean wonders how much effort it takes Laila just to be herself every day. He's done press with her. He knows what kinds of questions they ask her. It's not what they asked Jeremy.

“God,” Theo says. “I'm sorry. On the bright side, does that mean I can finally wingman you now?”

“I can't just meet someone at a bar, Theo.”

“Why not?”

“I'm a Muslim. I'd be drinking, like, a diet Coke, trying to take advantage of some poor drunk lesbians—don't laugh!”

“Sorry, sorry, I just hope you see like—Jean, you know why I'm laughing, right?”

“It's the casual lesbian sex juxtaposed with the Islam,” Jean explains helpfully. 

“Oh, wow, je suis Jean and I know all about Muslims because I'm from Marseille—”

“Horrific accent,” Jean says. “Otherwise accurate.”

Laila laughs. “How do you even pick up a stranger when you're wearing a hijab? I have no idea how to be single as an adult. I'm going to go into the world alone, and then I'm just going to be alone forever.” 

“If it helps, so is Jean.”

“Jean, if we're both still single when we're forty, will you convert to Islam and marry me to make my parents happy?”

“Do I actually have to convert, or can I just pretend?”

“Lying is haram,” Laila says. “You have to mean it.”

Jean opens his mouth to make a quip, but it doesn't come out. He can't remember the last time he was in a church, maybe hasn't ever been in one in this country, but even the joke feels wrong to him. 

“Maybe not,” he says instead. “But if we are both still single after our exy careers end, maybe we can buy a beach house together. Retire to Malibu.” Unless the Moriyamas chop his head off at the first sign he won't be profitable anymore. 

“That's a verbal contract,” Laila says. “I'm going to hold you to that.” She pushes away from the table. “I'm going to the library. What are you guys up to?”

It's a Friday afternoon and the exy season is over, which means Jean has nothing planned. He isn't sure he really wants to spend time with Rosaline after they completely fucked up having sex last night.

“I might go for a hike.”

Theo looks incredulous. “Are you serious, dude? You don't have finals?”

“I have a film paper and a Spanish exam to study for. I think one little hike will not wreck my GPA.”

“I want to go on a hike,” Theo says. “Unfortunately, I'm swamped too.”

“Have you ever hiked anywhere in your life?” Laila says. “They have huge mountains in Connecticut? Forests? You put on your hiking Sperrys and go climb them?”

“I don't own Sperrys,” Theo says, sneaking his uneaten banana into his bag and hauling it over his shoulder. “Haven't since I was fourteen and learned how to shop. And there are some nice trails in Connecticut. Not that I would know. Can I ride to the library with you?”

Laila nods. Jean walks back to their residence hall alone, drops his things off, and drives to a nearby trail. 

It'll be nice to spend some time alone before the rush of finals and his busy winter break. He likes the hiking trails here; if he times it right, he might get to see the sunset.

Jeremy texts, _how was the date?_

Jean's first instinct is to tell him all about it. Then he thinks the better of it and replies, _really good_.

He puts his phone away after that and focuses on the hike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: there are at least four guys named Pete(r) in this fic: the bartender, a guy on ESPN-E, the bus driver, and some guy Jeremy hooked up with. I do not know a single Peter in real life.
> 
> thanks for reading! please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo.


	21. houston ii

Jeremy's house is huge. No single person needs four bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, a sprawling open concept living room-slash-dining room-slash-kitchen, huge lawn, and decently sized pool, least of all Jeremy. 

The house is also meticulously clean, which is strange because while Jeremy was neat while he and Jean lived together, he was far from meticulous. Their bathroom always got pretty gross by the time it got cleaned on Thursday mornings. But most of the house seems untouched; the giant sectional in the living room looks the same as when Jean helped Jeremy move in over the summer. The TV is muted and tuned to some sports channel. The dining room table is covered in plastic. 

“You can stay in this room,” Jeremy says, taking Jean to the same room Jean stayed in the last time he was here. It also looks like it hasn't been touched since then. “You know where everything is obviously. Uh—feel free to nest, I don't really—I mean, I don't really use this room obviously, so I kind of—this is embarrassing, but I kind of think of it as your room? So yeah—if you want to leave your stuff or whatever, it'll be here next time you come and visit.”

“Thanks,” Jean says, dropping his bag on the bed. Maybe someday Jeremy's nervous stuttering will stop being so stupidly fucking charming. 

“Are you tired? Do you want to take a nap or something? I was going to say we can go to this place I've been wanting to try for dinner, and then maybe we can just go straight to the gym after. We can't really swim in my pool in this weather, but if you want to go for a swim anyway, there's one at my gym.” 

“I slept on the plane,” Jean says. “We can just hang out until dinner.”

“Sure,” Jeremy says. Something is off about their interaction. Jean can't quite put his finger on it. “That's a good idea. Um—do you want a drink?”

“Will you freak out if I drive us to dinner after having a single glass of wine?”

“Uh,” Jeremy says. “Possibly, but probably not at this point?”

“Then let's have a drink,” Jean says. “If you have an anxiety attack in the Zipcar, I will spot you a Klonopin.”

“Sure,” Jeremy says, and then it strikes Jean: Jeremy is standing way out of arm's reach. The last time they spent a lot of time together, Jeremy was all over him in that touchy feely Jeremy Knox way of his. Jean has spent enough time with the Trojans to know they're all like that. Seeing one of them—one of the quintessential ones at that—standing so far away feels wrong. 

“Jeremy,” Jean says. 

“Yeah?”

“Is it—is everything okay?”

Jeremy grins, lightning fast and not reaching anywhere near his eyes. “Definitely. I'm really glad you're here. Let's get you that glass of wine.”

Jean follows Jeremy into the kitchen. It's the only place in the house where there are obvious signs of life—a tiny red tomato stain on the stovetop, crumbs from breakfast on the marble counter. 

“I've gotten really into Perrier,” Jeremy says, uncapping a bottle. “You want one?”

“Hm—uh, sure.” 

“I know it's, like, a billion times more expensive per gallon than tap water, and I saw this thing on TV that was just super anti-Nestle, and I'm pretty sure Nestle owns Perrier? So maybe it'd be more efficient if I got one of those things that makes soda and just made my own sparkling water, right, but then it's not mineral water, it's just tap water with bubbles. Which is, I mean, it's fine, it's just not the same.”

Jean isn't really paying attention to what Jeremy is saying. He's too busy watching the curve of Jeremy's lips around the bottle. This is absurd. This is ridiculous. He needs to stop. 

Some of the Perrier spills onto Jeremy's shirt. Jeremy acts like this is no big deal, dabs at it with a paper towel. “Jean. You good? It's just some water.”

“I'm fine.” Jean forces himself to look anywhere else. The TV is playing soccer, a sport Jean hasn't cared about since he was six years old. “Are you trying to escape your contract by learning a new sport?”

Jeremy looks over at the TV, too. “God, no. Can you imagine?” He shudders, then bends to look at the wine fridge. Jean hadn't realized Jeremy liked wine enough to have one. “I have cabernet, pinot noir, chardonnay, cava, riesling—”

“Why do you have so much wine? Do you entertain that much?”

“I've been doing this, like, online wine tasting course,” Jeremy says, opening his cabinet for glasses. “So I'm buying all this wine—so I can follow along, right? But then I like—I mean, I like wine, but I don't, like, want to drink a whole bottle by myself every night. So I buy the mini bottles. But they only come in sets. So I have all these, like, restaurant sized mini bottles of wine.”

“Let's have cava,” Jean says. “We can celebrate.”

Jeremy plucks two champagne flutes from his cabinet. Jean wonders if Jeremy actually went to the store and bought them or if they came with the online class, too.

“Celebrate what?” Jeremy asks. “Are you going to be a dad or something?”

“What?”

“I mean—you're in a relationship with a girl.” Jeremy peels back some of the foil. “You just never know.”

“She is absolutely not pregnant.”

“I mean, I don't know the, like, physics of how likely it is that she'd be pregnant. But we can celebrate that you're not going to be a dad, right?”

Jean stares at him. “Do you feel good about this line of questioning?”

“I really don't. Sorry. Is this really rude? I—don't have anything against Rosalie, I'm sure she's great—”

“Rosaline,” Jean corrects. 

“Right, sorry, I'm just—sorry. I know I'm being kind of a dick, sorry, let's celebrate you being here.”

“Okay,” Jean says. He has absolutely no idea what is going on. 

Jeremy pops the cava. It isn't as satisfying as he obviously hoped it would be. He splits the mini bottle between his flute and Jean's, probably to minimize the amount of drinking Jean will be doing before driving. 

They sit together at Jeremy's kitchen table—it also looks unused; one of the chairs is still covered in plastic—and don't really talk. 

They don't talk much at dinner, either, or on the long drive they take afterward where Jeremy shows Jean all the Houston sights.

“That's the Lightyear Arena,” he says, gesturing out the window. He looks deflated, all sunk into his seat, both hands holding the seatbelt as if that would possibly be helpful if they crashed. “We practice at this huge gym down the block, and as promised there's an olympic-sized pool in the basement.”

“The gym is only for the Lightyears?”

“These days, yeah. It used to be a commercial gym, but once the Lightyears started generating a lot of revenue a few years ago, they bought it.” Jeremy rolls his window down. It's way too cold for it, but Jeremy doesn't seem to notice. “You should come to a game over spring break. It'll be playoffs. Super exciting.”

“Are your arena and your gym the only places of note in this city?”

“I mean, that are close by, yeah. We could've just biked, you know. How much is this Zipcar costing you?”

“How much is it costing you, you mean? I thought you said this trip was all expenses paid.”

Jeremy laughs. “That makes it, like, tacky for me to ask how much it costs though. I just have to cover the cost no matter what?”

“I promise it will cost less than you made today doing absolutely nothing.”

“Good point. You can park in my spot—look, number seventeen.” 

“Why do you have a spot if you don't drive?” Jean asks, pulling in. He thought it would take longer to get here. Jeremy barely ate at dinner and so probably feels fine to work out now, but Jean's meal is heavy in his stomach. 

“I don't know. Athlete privilege, I guess.”

Jeremy leads the way inside, but once they finish changing out, they separate. Jeremy needs to run and lift for the Lightyears. Jean is only really here to swim. 

He does a light warmup, stretches, and goes straight downstairs. Part of him wishes it were warm enough to swim in Jeremy's pool, but it's rare that Jean swims outside anyway. At USC, he always uses the indoor pool instead of the outdoor one even when the weather is nice. It doesn't make much sense—he loves being outside, loves being in the sun—except that the sensory deprivation of an indoor pool has always been soothing. Maybe it's a holdover from all the injury rehab he had to do at Edgar Allan. He was never allowed to skip practices, but usually the master stepped in and told Riko to let him swim instead of running when he was injured. The longer it took for his knees to give out, the master argued, the longer Jean would be an asset for their family. 

Sometimes Riko took liberties, tried to see how long Jean could stay under water, punished him if he came up too early. More often Riko couldn't be bothered—he didn't like swimming himself, and he avoided the pool most of the time. But sometimes—his hand on Jean's head, the threat of punishment more potent than the potential to drown—

Jean comes up for air, sputtering, coughing. It doesn't matter. Riko is dead, and Jean is a Trojan. Riko is buried in West Virginia, and Jean is in Houston. 

He blinks water out of his eyes, and then he ducks back down, does a lap at his max speed. He feels like he's always trying to outswim his own body. Being underwater is like not being quite human anymore. He used to wish he had gils, that he could jump into the ocean and swim and swim until he couldn't see the shore anymore. He likes swimming for the same reason he likes driving: in the water, he's weightless, no longer a body, just movement.

Instead of Riko, he thinks about Jeremy sitting next to him in the sand in Santa Monica, skin coated in sea salt, that laugh, waves licking his toes, seagulls calling out all around them. 

“It's about to be high tide,” Jeremy said, leaning forward to get his fingers in the water too. “Maybe we should move.” 

But neither of them did; Jean thought they might let the ocean just take them, float away on all that saltwater and end up somewhere where no one knew them and none of this mattered, not Japan of course but Hawaii maybe. Somewhere warm and sunny where exy isn't that popular. 

Jean lets himself drift into the daydream—what could have been, what he and Jeremy could have been if he'd risked it, tried to force a real response out of Jeremy when they were both sober. It's not worth it. Why would Jeremy be interested when Jean can't even—

There's a body next to him. Jean resurfaces and floats to the edge of the pool, watches Jeremy finish his own lap before joining him.

“I've gotten faster, right?” Jeremy pushes the hair that has slipped out of its tie out of his face. “I've been swimming a lot before bed. Since there's not really enough time in the day to go for really long bike rides most of the time, it's just a good way to like, tire myself out.”

“If you say so,” Jean says. He forces himself to keep his eyes on Jeremy's face. “I thought you were lifting.”

“Yeah, I did. You've been down here for like an hour.”

“Oh,” Jean says. Jeremy's face is a mistake, too, because Jean keeps watching the way water beads off his nose. “Do you have any plans tomorrow?”

“I don't know. I haven't explored Houston much, to be honest. We could do that.”

Jeremy's fingers cling to the ledge. Jean looks back at his face, startles a little at what Jeremy actually looks like up close. 

“What is it, Knox?”

“What do you mean?”

“You look awful.”

It's a strange thing to say to someone tanner and broader than the last time Jean got a good look at him, but it's true. Jeremy has barely smiled the entire time Jean has been here. He has dark circles under his eyes. His hair, which Jeremy is liable to let grow out too long but usually keeps in some sort of style, looks lank. Jean thought it was something he was doing at first, but Jeremy isn't that kind of vindictive. He likes to talk. He would have said something if the problem were Jean.

“That's mean,” Jeremy says, voice mild.

“You are a first year rookie who isn't starting. That is not the end of the world.”

“I don't—” Jeremy says, and then just shrugs. “What do you mean?”

“Jeremy. Are you okay?”

At once, Jeremy's face crumples. Jean did not see it coming and does not know how to respond—an arm around Jeremy's shoulder? Right now, while they're treading water by the edge of a swimming pool? 

“Jeremy,” Jean says, hoping he doesn't sound as alarmed as he feels. 

“I know. I just—I fucking hate it here.” Jeremy closes his eyes. “Let's go back to the house, I don't want to have a nervous breakdown in public.”

There isn't really anyone here to see. Jean passed a few Lightyears, but otherwise it's mostly empty this late.

Regardless, Jean climbs out of the pool. “You are going to have a nervous breakdown?”

“I'm already having one.”

“What does your therapist say?”

Jeremy winces. “I haven't found one yet.”

“Really? You've been here since May.”

“I know. I just—I'm busy, and the team psych is just—” Jeremy shrugs, follows Jean out of the water. He catches Jean's expression and adds, “I know. I _know_. Let's get out of here, I learned how to make a bunch of fancy cocktails.”

“No time for therapy, but plenty for mixology classes?” Not to mention wine tasting and cooking and swimming.

“It's just YouTube on weekend nights,” Jeremy says. “I'm not taking, like, formal classes or anything. I'd just get bored if I were just—sitting here by myself all the time.”

“Jeremy—”

“Not here,” Jeremy says again, leading the way through the labyrinthine lower level of the gym to the locker rooms. “Let's just shower and go back to the house.”

They do all of that in silence, too, even when Jean drops off the Zipcar and they walk back to Jeremy's house. 

“You like negronis, right?” Jeremy says, stacking the ingredients for one on his kitchen island. Mostly full bottles of fancy gin and vermouth, a sealed bottle of Campari, an orange he takes zest from and then peels quickly and efficiently. He holds out a segment of the orange, and bemused, Jean accepts it. He gets the idea Jeremy is having fun with the showpiece of it all, standing behind the kitchen island like a real bartender, and far be it from Jean to stop him. 

“How did you know that?”

“We've been to like a hundred bars together.”

“Mostly just Sticks and Nets,” Jean says. “I do not think they sell negronis.”

“I'm sure they'd make you one if you asked.” Jeremy adds the ingredients to a glass with what looks like way too much ice, then strains it into two smaller glasses. Jean doesn't know a thing about bartending. He has no idea if Jeremy is doing this right. “Here you go.”

Jean takes a sip while Jeremy watches. “It's good,” he says, still bemused. 

“Good,” Jeremy says. “Great.” 

“So about that nervous breakdown.”

Jeremy coughs into his own drink. “Jesus. No segues at all with you, huh?”

“I think it's more useful just to be frank with things like this.”

“What are things like this?”

“Things like when you are having a perfectly nice swim, and then your best friend tells you he is about to have a nervous breakdown and his strange behavior all day suddenly makes sense,” Jean says. 

“Jesus,” Jeremy says again. “I don't know.” He squeezes the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Jean hasn't seen that gesture from him before. “Maybe this isn't for me.”

“HR, then?” Jean suggests. 

It doesn't achieve the laugh he was hoping for. Instead, Jeremy closes his eyes, sighs. “You know, when I first joined the Trojans, it took me weeks to make a friend. I was thinking it might be like that here, but it's, like, not even that they're not friendly … I just can't find it within myself to even try.”

“Maybe you're right, then,” Jean says. “It is not for you. Quit exy. Go apply for a job in marketing or something.”

“I can't just quit.”

Jeremy can do what he likes. “Why not?”

“I don't know. I mean, I have a contract, for one, even if I'm never fucking playing. Also, like, I'm not sure I've ever quit anything in my entire life. And I mean—this is exactly what I'm supposed to want, right? Playing for the Houston Lightyears my first year out of college? This is supposed to be the right path for me.”

“Didn't you start because you kept getting beat up? No one is going to beat you up now.”

“That's just, like, Trojan legend. It's not really accurate.”

“Why did you, then?”

“What?”

“Start playing exy.”

“My grandmother made me,” Jeremy says. His smile is bittersweet, but at least, Jean thinks, it's a smile. “After my parents died—I was like, a complete nightmare child. I mean, even before they died I was annoying as shit, but after the accident, I was just the worst. Like, the school had to have my grandmother in multiple times to be like, listen, this kid weighs fifty pounds and keeps picking fights with the eighth graders, we can only do so much before he ends up hospitalized. Again. Which, like—I don't know, at the time, I just felt like—” 

He sighs. He stares at the bottom of his drink, then pours a measure of gin into his glass.

“I've been through this all in fucking therapy, so I know it's because I was trying to correct the, like, balance of justice in the universe or whatever, that's why I kept fighting all these bullies who'd picked on me and other kids, and it was just, like—too much for my grandmother. So she got me out of the schoolyard by signing me up for sports. No soccer because my mom was a fan and after she died my grandmother couldn't even tolerate people supporting El Tri in our neighborhood. Basketball didn't start til the next winter. No football because she was scared of concussions—ironic, right?—and the baseball team was full. She didn't even know what exy was, but she signed me up, and then I went, and I was fast and skinny so they made me a striker, and when I got to high school I started lifting—I mean, no one ever picked on me again after I started playing. Like, it worked. I didn't have time to pick fights, I finally had this thing I was good at, got all my excess energy out.” 

“She died the summer before you started college, right? Your grandmother?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy says. He looks back at Jean. “She always said I survived 'pero por la gracia de Dios.' Like, I should've died in that car, and I didn't, and the result was that I got to play exy I guess. I just wanted—she always talked about how much she missed traveling and stuff since after she had kids and moved to the U.S. it was kind of over, and I just thought, if I can just finish college and get a good paycheck, I can just—like, to thank her.” Jeremy's skin is flushed and his eyes are bright, like he might cry. “When she died—I kind of felt like she was just waiting for me to leave so she could just, like, go be at peace. Go travel in the afterlife or whatever.”

“She sounds amazing,” Jean says. 

“She was. I wish you could have met her.”

“Would she have liked me?”

“Everyone likes you,” Jeremy says, which isn't true. “Jesus Christ. I thought this would be enough.” Jean hasn't seen him look like this before, like it would take endless coaxing to get him to smile again. “Exy, I mean. It's not, you know.”

“I told you,” Jean says. “Exy is not your life.”

“It's not yours, either. Even if you made—whatever trade. It's just a sport. It can't be—” He waves a hand. “Everything. It's just not enough.”

Jean knows better. Jeremy will never understand what it is to have one thing and one thing alone tethering you to the side of a building. There is no safety net. If he fails at this, he will be killed. 

“I mean it, Jean. It can't be everything.”

“For you. Some of us do not have other options.”

“Not other options. Other—accoutrements, I guess. There needs to be more there. Exy might be the protein, but you still need—micronutrients, I don't know.”

“That is a tortured metaphor,” Jean says. “Are your micronutrients the fifteen different types of salt in your spice cabinet?”

“Like, literally, I guess, I don't know.”

“So you are learning all these tricks for entertaining, and then you just sit here and sip fancy wine by yourself.”

“I dump most of it out,” Jeremy says. “I mean, there's only so much wine you can have before it all starts to just taste like bad grapes to you.”

Jean has no idea what to say. He knew Jeremy was having trouble adjusting, but he didn't imagine this. 

“Do you still want to get that dog?”

“What?”

“The pitbull,” Jean says. “You said there was a pitbull at the shelter nearby.”

“Uh—yeah.”

“Let's get him tomorrow. While I'm here, so you can put everything in the Zipcar.”

“Am I paying for that one too?”

“Of course.”

Jeremy contemplates him. “Okay,” he says. “Let's get the dog.”

*

The dog is a pitbull German shepherd mix, bigger than Jean expected him to be and completely docile in the backseat of the Zipcar. He spends the whole drive back to Jeremy's house with his head in Jeremy's lap.

“What a good doggy,” Jeremy says, scratching him behind the ears. “Jean, isn't he a good doggy?”

Jean glances at the rearview and has to look away: Jeremy is staring at the dog with naked adoration, genuinely smiling for the first time since Jean got here. 

“Very good,” Jean says. “What is his name?”

“His last owner called him Killer, but there's just no way we're calling him that. Maybe we can go with something close—maybe something German, right? Jean, do you know any German?”

“Auf Wiedersehen. Gesundheit. Schadenfreude.”

“Maybe we should do something that starts with a K. What starts with a K?”

“Kevin,” Jean says without thinking, and then winces, redirecting his attention to the road in front of him. “Karl.”

“Imagine if I really called him Kevin. Poor human Kevin would never hear the end of it. I can already imagine the tweets.” 

Jean hums, noncommittal, and flies past a yellow light. Luckily, Jeremy is too distracted to make note of it. 

“Are you guys talking again or anything?” Jeremy asks.

“No,” Jean says. The GPS chirps that he needs to take a left. He does. This is not the time. He can freak out later, when he isn't currently in charge of preventing Jeremy's greatest fear.

“So there would be minimum confusion if I named the dog Kevin?”

Jean lets out a sound that might be a laugh. “I do not think he would find it very funny.”

“Maybe his teammates would.”

“Name him something Spanish,” Jean says. “What did you say before? Gracia?”

“That's a girl name.” 

“Any famous Mexican exy players you can think of?”

“Sara Alvarez. Jeremy Knox.”

“Hilarious.”

“There was this striker, actually—soccer, not exy—named Jared Borgetti. My mom really liked him.”

“Borgetti? He wasn't Mexican?”

“No, he was. He played for her favorite team when she was growing up, and he scored like fifty goals for Mexico.”

“So you are going to name your dog Jared?”

“Jeremy, Jean, and Jared,” Jeremy says. “Has a ring to it, right?”

It almost sounds, Jean thinks, like they're a couple. The woman helping them at the shelter asked if they were. No, Jeremy told her, but he'd like Jean to be the dog's noncustodial parent. “Not really.”

“What about like—Borgo? That's an homage without being too human, right?”

It's a terrible name, honestly. “Borgo sounds like the nickname of a Soviet spy.”

“Perfect.” Jeremy flashes a smile at Jean in the rearview mirror. “Borgo it is.”

*

Apparently, Jeremy's idea of cooking a fancy meal involves spending an inordinate amount of money at Whole Foods and buying a sous vide machine before he has even told Jean what they'll be having.

“Just shut up and drive,” Jeremy says, as close to cheerful as Jean has seen him in months. “You're going to get spoiled, and you're going to enjoy it.”

Jean shuts up and drives. He gets his hand batted away when he tries to help Jeremy cook, and ultimately gets sent out to take the dog for a walk. 

He has never taken a dog for a walk before. Borgo is more curious than Jean expected him to be: he shows interest in every flower, every squirrel, even the cars. Jean wonders how long he was in the shelter.

Since Jeremy clearly wants to surprise him with something, Jean walks around suburban Houston until Borgo starts to whine. The neighborhood is cute enough, but almost mind-numbingly boring. There is a park around the corner, but otherwise the houses are all nearly identical, sparkling cars in their driveways, lawns bright green despite it being January and also the desert. Jean can't imagine living here. Why Jeremy didn't get an apartment in the city is beyond him.

The first thing that hits Jean when he gets back to Jeremy's house is the smell of garlic.

“Hi, Jeremy,” he calls from the entryway, unclipping Borgo's leash and watching as he climbs into his bed and promptly falls asleep. 

“Hey,” Jeremy says, emerging from the kitchen wearing an apron and a pair of oven mitts. “How was he?”

Something in Jean's chest clenches, and he has no idea why. “Perfect.”

“I'm still cooking,” Jeremy says. “But you can come sit at the island. I have a starter.”

“A starter? How many courses did you make?”

“Just this and the main, and obviously dessert, coffee, wine pairings—is this funny to you?”

“Extremely.” Jean sits at the island, where Jeremy has laid out a cheese tray complete with caviar and smoked salmon. “How much did you spend on this?”

“Less than what I made sitting around doing nothing all day,” Jeremy says. “Do you want wine?”

“Which of your restaurant bottles pairs best with caviar?”

Jeremy pours him a glass, takes the other half for himself. “The driest white wine I have.”

“It's good,” says Jean, who likes to think he gives off the aura of understanding wine but whose entire relationship with it revolves around cheap stuff at school events and parties. “Borgo met your neighbor's poodle. She liked him.”

Jeremy's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. He drains most of his glass of wine. 

“What's wrong?” Jean says.

“Just, like, right now, or in the whole world in general?”

“Don't do that. Just tell me.”

“I don't know,” Jeremy admits. “I just—I feel like I'm messing this up.”

“Messing what up?”

“I don't know. Everything. My personal life, my career—I just have no idea what I'm doing.”

“Jeremy—”

“No, I don't want to—let's talk about literally anything else, okay?”

“Okay,” Jean says. “What are you making?”

Instead of immediately answering, Jeremy digs into the cheese. “I wanted to make something that would remind you of home.” 

“Avocado toast and an acai bowl?”

“Not L.A., dummy.”

For a moment, Jean thinks he means West Virginia. Then he lets his eyes drift to the pot on the stove, fully takes in the smell of garlic. 

“What is it?” Jean says. 

“Bouillabaisse. I have no idea if I made it right, but luckily I have lots of wine and plenty of cheese if it's really bad.”

“Bouillabaisse,” Jean repeats. There's that clench in his chest again. “Did you just google popular foods in Marseille?”

“Well, yes.” Jeremy's cheeks flush. “Was Google wrong? Do you not like bouillabaisse?”

Jean thinks, right now. If they were together, if it wouldn't jeopardize their entire friendship, this is where they would kiss. 

“I do,” Jean says. “I'm just surprised. I haven't eaten it since I was a child.”

“But you do like fish.”

“I love fish.” Jean stares at the caviar in front of him. This is so fucking weird. _Caviar_. “Jeremy, what's—this is really nice. You did not have to spend all this money.”

“I know.” Jeremy turns away from him, checks something in the pot. “I wanted to. I told you I've been doing cooking classes. I feel like—I feel kind of bad that you haven't gotten to celebrate holidays properly, and I know we're like weeks late for Thanksgiving and Christmas and birthdays and everything, but we can still have fun, right? Plus you've been chauffeuring me around since you got here, and I know I haven't been super fun to be around, and I just—wanted to do something nice.”

Jean has the strange feeling he's in the deep end of a pool and has forgotten how to swim. He says, “Okay. Thank you.”

*

They spend almost the entire rest of Jean's time there hanging out with the dog. Jean is surprised at how much he enjoys it. Borgo is desperate for affection, leaps into Jean's lap any time Jean sits down, barks loudly when they come home from meals or drinks or sightseeing around Houston.

As a result, when it comes time for Jean to fly home, he finds himself sad not only at the prospect of leaving Jeremy, but also because he won't be seeing Borgo for a while.

“Aw, he's so bummed you're leaving,” Jeremy says, watching Borgo leap into Jean's arms, all seventy pounds of him. “He loves you, look.”

“I will probably miss him more than you.” Jean sets Borgo down and straightens to survey the living room. He doesn't think he has left anything behind. The house at least looks a little homier than when he first arrived: a big dog bed by the couch, food and water bowls in the kitchen, a deep scratch in a chair that was still wrapped when Jean got here. “I'm just going to call an Uber.”

“Sure,” Jeremy says. “Oh, wait, shit, sorry, you have dog hair all over you.” He brushes a hand against the collar of Jean's sweater.

Without thinking, Jean grabs Jeremy's wrist to stop him. Jeremy's eyes dart up to meet Jean's, and then they stand there in silence for a moment before Jeremy says, “Sorry. I didn't mean to—whatever. Make you feel uncomfortable.”

Jean still has hold of Jeremy's wrist. He could go for it. He could do it. He could say, I want to kiss you, I've wanted to for months, I hate that you don't feel the same, I like you, I'm in—

“No, I—” He drops Jeremy's wrist. “Sorry. I wasn't thinking. Do you have a lint roller?”

Jeremy goes to get one while Jean tries to regain his bearings. He wasn't expecting this, how sharp it is. He wants to tell Jeremy to stop blurring the lines, but he doesn't even know if any lines have been blurred. If Theo brushed dog hair off his collar, Jean wouldn't care, right? But then, if Theo took Jean to an animal shelter and asked for help choosing a dog and kissed Jean's cheek and hugged Jean like Jean was the only thing keeping him tethered to the planet, Jean would probably suspect something. 

This isn't fair. Jean said he liked Jeremy, and Jeremy said he was in it for the sex. Jean should step back, establish a boundary, make it clear that they are good friends and only good friends. That's what his therapist would tell him to do.

Jeremy gets back with the lint roller, rolls it over Jean's collar. “Much better.”

“Is it?” Jean says. He doesn't want to look in a mirror. He's worried he'll see all his thoughts transcribed on his face. “Good.”

“You look nice,” Jeremy says. “I'm going to miss you.”

“I know,” Jean says. He searches for a better response. “When will we see each other again?”

“Maybe spring break?” Jeremy says. “I know there's usually practice, but maybe a weekend … or maybe I can take a couple of days and come out or something.”

“Okay,” Jean says. He wishes he could say more, but he doesn't even know where he'd start. “Jeremy, I—what are you going to do?”

Jeremy scratches the back of his neck and lets out a low chuckle. “I have no fucking idea.”

“Just—call me, okay? Before you make any big decisions.”

“Of course,” Jeremy says. “See you soon.”

“Jeremy.”

“Yeah.”

“Make a friend,” Jean says. “Everyone probably likes you.”

“I know they do. I just—” Jeremy sighs. “Hey. You don't want to miss your flight.”

Jean kind of does. He just nods, though. “Right. My Uber is outside.”

“Okay. Give me a hug, Moreau.”

Jean obliges. “Bye, Knox.”

“Bye, Jean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall, whining: “we miss jeremy give us jeremy”  
> me, benevolent but also low key mean: I got yall >:)
> 
> please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo! i'm on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com)


	22. dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick note that there are some mentions of past suicidal ideation in this chapter

Jean dreams he and Jeremy are kissing in a giant outdoor pool. Jeremy tastes like saltwater, and they're surrounded by floating exy racquets and balls. But then Jean gets a closer look at the exy racquets, sees that they're all stained with blood, and when he looks back at Jeremy, he's clutching his arm to his chest.

“Jeremy,” Jean says, but it isn't Jeremy who looks back at him, it's Riko, and of course it would be Riko because Jeremy shot himself months ago—

He wakes with a start. Sunlight streams in from his window, a welcome relief from the inside of his head. He's in his own bed at USC. Riko is dead. Jeremy is alive and in Houston and anyway Jean has never been in a saltwater pool.

Jean sits up, not wanting to close his eyes lest the image of all those bloody racquets returns. He reaches for his water bottle, chugs a good amount of it without even really feeling the water go down his throat. On his desk, his phone has a green unread text notification. 

He expects it to be Jeremy, but it's not. It's Rosaline.

Jean blinks the sleep out of his eyes and collapses back into his bed, phone in hand. She wants to get dinner before the semester starts. The rest of his phone has more of the same—Laila letting him know she'll be back late tomorrow, Alvarez asking if he's free for lunch, Theo obviously still drunk from last night asking why Jean isn't answering his phone. Jean replies to Alvarez and Rosaline, shoots a text to Jeremy, and tries to bring himself back to life. 

The best way to do this, usually, is by sliding into the pool. It doesn't seem like the best idea right now. 

He can still feel the after effects of the Klonopin he took before going to sleep, muffling the noises in his head, protecting him from the worst of this. He knows he's supposed to practice meditation when this happens, but all meditation ever does is give him one thing to focus on, and usually it's the thing he's not supposed to be focusing on.

Instead, Jean stretches out in his bed and turns on some mindless stream of easily digestible comedy. He watches until he isn't aware of himself watching anymore, and when he wakes next, it's noon and he feels fine.

*

Jean can't pin down whatever keeps churning in his chest. It keeps him up at night, gives him bad dreams, is only alleviated at all when he talks to Jeremy and then comes back harsher than before, like the cough after a cigarette.

He's in Spanish class the first day of the semester, and it strikes him that he hasn't listened to a word out of his professor's mouth. When it's his turn to present his work, he babbles something and isn't even sure what language it comes out in. 

Afterward, he calls Jeremy, who picks up immediately.

“What's up?” 

“I just had the strangest mind thing in Spanish class.”

“What do you mean by mind thing?”

“I couldn't pay attention at all, and then when the professor called on me I just said whatever words came out of my mouth. I think it may have been in French. I really can't say.”

Jeremy laughs. “Maybe they just thought it was your accent.”

It's nice just have to Jeremy on the other end of the phone, always ready to answer, as reliable as the tide. Jean already feels better. 

“Maybe,” Jean says. “What did you do today?”

“I had practice this morning—we're doing conditioning stuff for playoffs mostly—and then I took Borgo for a hike. We're on our way back right now, actually.”

Jeremy sounds so good. If Jean had known a dog would be exactly what Jeremy needed to put some of the pep back in his step, he would've flown to Houston and gotten him one in September. 

“How was practice?” Jean says, careful. 

“It was fine. I don't know. I think I'm going to be getting more minutes during playoffs, so if I can prove myself—”

“You can earn some starts?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy says. 

“Houston Lightyears starting striker Jeremy Knox,” Jean says. “It has a nice ring to it.”

“Let's not count our chickens just yet,” Jeremy says. In the background, Borgo barks relentlessly. “You want to talk to Borgo?”

“Of course,” Jean says. He can't understand how he's feeling right now, like walking takes less effort, like he could leap and fly if he wanted to. “Put him on.”

But then, a few minutes later, he hangs up, and the pressure in his chest is back, heavy and uncomfortable.

He has an idea of what it means. He doesn't like to think about it.

*

They have a couple of weeks before the exy season starts, but Laila wants to repeat, so they're back to practicing just as hard as ever as soon as everyone is back on campus. She spent winter break in Houston after all, got sent home after the first week, and is now in touch with New York. One of the top two teams in the eastern conference. It's not a bad takeaway.

“Plus I can finally upgrade my shitty Camry,” Laila says as the defense works through warmups a week or so into the semester. “It's kind of hard to let it go, though. I've had it since high school.”

Jean remembers his first car. Black, sleek, with a number three on the license plate to match the one on his face. He felt no such sentimental connection. The car wasn't even in his name.

“I can't say I can relate,” he tells her. “I always wanted to drive my old car off a cliff.” With him and maybe Riko in it, ideally. 

“Yeah, can't say anyone's ever had to fear being tortured in my car, least of all me.”

“Not true. I have heard you sing.”

Laila laughs, a little startled, and then gets distracted shouting at Fran and Dev for something. Jean takes a water break.

He isn't sentimental about the car, not really. He can't think of anything he _is_ sentimental about. He doesn't care about anything from his old life. He has no desire to see or talk to his parents. He doesn't even really feel that strongly about leaving USC at the end of the semester, other than faintly surprised that he will—barring any confirmation of everything he dreads—make it to commencement alive. He spent a lot of time planning not to be anymore. That's the one sentiment he does allow himself: faint surprise, and under it, a spark of pride.

Across the court, Laila is setting up cones. When Jean catches her eye, she gestures for him to help her. He does.

*

It's even more impossible for Jean and Rosaline to coordinate their schedules this semester, given he is constantly at practice and she has a senior thesis to finish that involves filming at insane hours of the day and night.

That said, they both still have to eat breakfast, so sometimes they coordinate their weekend mornings. 

“How's the movie?” Jean asks. They are both in Rosaline's room, a spread of breakfast foods pilfered from the dining hall on her desk. They're working quickly: Rosaline has a paper due, and Jean has an interview with ESPNU in an hour. “Are you officially the next Ava?”

“Would it be weird if I asked you to call me Ava in bed?” Rosaline asks, tugging off her sweater and then methodically undoing the buttons on Jean's shirt. “Why are you so dressed up?”

Jean kicks his pants off. “Yes, it would be, and I have an interview after this, so I thought I would walk in looking more cleaned up than usual.”

“Won't they give you clothes?” 

“Probably, but I—” He kisses her. “—would at least to make a nice impression.”

“Would you now?” Rosaline pushes him onto her bed. “Well, you made a nice one here, I'll give you that—”

Jean thinks they are probably together for no more than thirty minutes total before he's being shuffled out of her room, half his buttons still undone. He speeds all the way to his interview, where he is indeed given interview clothes, and does all the brooding and glaring and bullshitting he has been trained to do since he was a child. 

The interview was Rheman's idea. Rheman suggested it might remind people of Jean's skill not only as an exy figure but also as a public figure. It would get teams excited. Something like that. Jean has been trying to avoid thinking about it, honestly; he knows he should go to the highest bidder or else wait for the draft and hope whoever picks him can afford the Moriyamas' demands. That is what Kevin would tell him to do.

*

“Why do you think she isn't interested in the type of relationship you want?”

“I'm not sure I do want it,” Jean says. “Or maybe I do, but not necessarily with her.”

Amir leans forward in his chair. “Usually when you avoid answering a question, it's because I've struck a nerve.” 

“You have not,” Jean says, “struck a _nerve_. I am just clarifying. She isn't interested, but I am not necessarily interested either.”

“I'm still anxious to hear your analysis.”

“You said it would be a more positive practice for me not to over-analyze every interaction I have with potential partners.”

Amir smiles. “I did say that. Did you listen?”

“I'm trying.”

“Change doesn't happen overnight.”

“I'm aware.”

“Then answer the question.”

Jean hates this part of therapy, mostly because of how stupidly susceptible he is. He isn't usually this easy to rile up, but Amir is very good at goading him into blurting out whatever it is he's thinking.

“To be clear, I know this is not why she isn't interested in a relationship. She said she is not at a place in her life where a relationship would be a good idea, and I believe her, because I don't think I am at a place in my life where a relationship would be a good idea, and it has nothing to do with her.”

Amir waits.

Jean continues: “That said, I worry that I will always find this difficult because I have—significantly more baggage than the average person.”

“What does that mean?”

Jean tugs at a stray thread on the couch. He hates this couch. It's so overused that he basically sinks into it every time. He wishes he could sit up straight.

“It means I spent a lot of time with someone who hated me so much that he needed to make it obvious on every inch of my body, and it is difficult for new people to look past that.”

“Ah,” Amir says. “You think you are unlovable because your abuser hated you so much.”

Jean didn't expect Amir to come to that conclusion, especially not this quickly. He picks at the stray string, unraveling more of the already threadbare couch. 

“I did not say unlovable,” Jean says. “You shouldn't say that. I am not— _unlovable_.”

“I think the language of love and hate is unhelpful in situations like this, where the abuse lasted so long and was so far-reaching. It's more helpful to talk about control and pain.”

Jean can feel himself start to zone out. He tries to stay in the moment, but he doesn't really want to hear this, not right now.

Amir keeps talking. Jean says something in response. 

He gets home, and he has no recollection of the appointment ending or driving himself here. He changes out for practice and doesn't feel fully back in his own body until a ball whacks him in the chest. 

“Fucking pay attention, Moreau!” Alvarez shouts, and it's the motivation Jean needs to kick back into gear.

*

Jean dreams that he's driving, and driving, and driving, so steadily that he doesn't even notice when the bridge collapses under him. He lands in the ocean. The salt burns his eyes, but somehow, he breathes.

In the passenger seat is Riko, clawing at his seatbelt, one hand reaching for Jean. He is Riko as he must look now, a half-rotted corpse, no eyeballs, a maggot crawling out of his eye socket. Jean, who never wore his seatbelt in cars with Riko, pushes his window open and swims out. But instead of resurfacing, he keeps moving down, closer to the ocean floor, closer, closer—

*

Jean falls asleep in class three days in a row, gets yelled at by a professor, and sleeps through afternoon practice with the shades up high, sunlight streaming in.

He wakes to a banging on his door. Groggy, he opens it.

“Where the fuck were you?” Laila demands. “We've been texting you for hours, we thought something—” 

She stops, catches sight of his face. “Are you sick?”

“No.” Jean rubs his eyes. It's not sunny anymore. “What time is it?”

“Are you serious?” Laila pushes into the room and closes the door. “Hey. Jean. Are you okay?”

“I have been sleeping poorly. I just crashed. I'm sorry.”

“No, it's fine, I just—a head's up would've been nice. We didn't know what to think. You weren't answering your phone.”

“You were worried,” Jean says. “Touching.”

“I don't know what those fucking people are capable of. I think it's fair for me to be worried if you've suddenly disappeared off the map. Why haven't you been sleeping well?”

“Nothing serious,” Jean says. “I'm working on it.”

“You'd better be. We need you alert.” Laila searches Jean's face. “Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“I'm going to bring you something. Go back to sleep, okay? I'll wake you up when I get back.”

“Laila, you don't have to—”

“Stop it. You didn't even miss practice when you were injured last year. Can I have your room key?”

Jean hesitates. “Really, I can—”

“I'm insisting.”

“Okay,” Jean says. “Thank you.”

Laila smiles, takes his room key, and disappears.

Jean has no idea when she comes back in, but when he next wakes up, there is a to-go container of food on his desk alongside his key. He doesn't know when he became such a heavy sleeper. He texts her his appreciation and eats in the dark.

*

“You shut down on me last week,” Amir says, after forty-five minutes of Jean hashing out all his dreams and trying to work his way through what on earth they mean. “Was it talking about control? Or the idea of being unlovable?”

“I don't know,” Jean says. “I do not think—I know people love me. My team loves me. My old captain and I are close friends.” Except—“He has frequently said that his—concerns about me are Trojan-specific.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I don't know. He isn't the captain anymore, and he is still obviously concerned. When he needs to be.”

“What about Kevin?”

“What _about_ Kevin?”

“You've mentioned him in conversations like this before.”

“I don't want to talk about him.”

“Then maybe you should.”

“I said I don't want to.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” Jean looks at the clock. Their time is almost up. He has no idea what to say. It's not like he can just admit everything—I loved him, and he left me at Edgar Allan, and I can't even blame him because I would have left him too, I planned to leave him too, every day I thought about how I could, and then what would become of Kevin? “Our time is almost up.”

“Would it put you in danger to talk to Kevin?”

“No.”

“Would it make you feel better to talk to Kevin? Clear out the air?”

“I don't know.”

“Why don't you think about it?” Amir suggests. “Let me know what you decided next week.”

*

Everyone on their floor of the residence hall plays either exy or hockey, and since the major league seasons coincide, there is almost always a struggle over which channel the floor TV should be tuned to.

That means it's through sheer luck that Jean leaves his room for an early morning swim and hears Jeremy's voice coming out of the TV.

No one is in the lounge; someone must have left the TV on and tuned to ESPN last night. Jean considers ignoring it, but it's too big of a coincidence, so he takes a detour.

ESPN is airing a pre-playoffs exy special featuring all the first-year rookies on their way to playoffs for the first time. Jeremy sits opposite a sportscaster in front of a dark background, and his body language looks to Jean like a dead giveaway: leaning back, arms crossed over his chest, lips quirked up at the corners but not quite a smile. He looks the way he always looks on a court. Ready for a fight.

“Of course I'm excited. The great thing about playoffs is that games come hard and fast, so you can show everyone what you're made of. I can't wait to remind the Lightyears why I'm here.”

“That suggests some tension,” the interviewer says. “Are you having trouble settling in?”

Jeremy's smile stretches, threatens to crack right down the middle. “It's a beautiful city, and the Lightyears fans are incredible.”

“Surely you must be frustrated that you aren't seeing as much play time as you'd like.”

“It's my first season,” Jeremy says, still smiling that awful jack-o-lantern smile. “I don't think anyone was expecting me to start immediately. I have to work my way up, just like everyone else.”

The interview switches to someone else. Jean puts his earbuds in and jogs the whole way to the gym.

*

The Trojans' first championship game is against Vanderbilt, a sprawling southern school decked out in Greek letters.

Expectedly, it's a rout. Somewhat less expectedly, a decent amount of that is down to Fran, who subs in early when Theo picks up a knock in the first half. She adapts quickly to playing primarily defensively, slides in behind Jean, seals the Trojan defense. Jean presses forward to create space, and the strikers immediately take advantage. Vanderbilt look shell-shocked at the end of it. Jean tries not to enjoy it too much.

Before he can get to the locker room, Rheman flags him down. “Moreau, do you have a minute? I want to introduce you to someone.” 

Still in all his gear, Jean follows Rheman past the press to where a group of scouts stands ominously.

“Hi, Jean,” one of the scouts says, smiling broadly. “I'm Ryan Kilpatrick, New York Leviathans. We're looking for a backliner, you know.”

Another scout bumps against the first one's shoulder and holds out a card. “You know what they have in New York? Rats and snow. Danny Pereira, Miami Typhoons. You're from Marseille, right? I think you'd love the weather in Miami—”

“You know why they call themselves the Typhoons?” Kilpatrick says. “Because they have them. All the time. Can't even enjoy the beach.”

“Do you always exclusively use weather to recruit new players?” Jean asks, which makes both of them laugh.

“Look,” Pereira says. “We're looking for a backliner. No second string—you'd be starting in the second half, at least.” Jean is pretty sure that means he would in fact be second string. “I'm a Trojan alum, you know, played in goal all through the late nineties as soon as the sport became NCAA-eligible. I started out in lacrosse, but—”

“Jean, I know you'll choose New York,” Kilpatrick says. “I was a Raven, too, and I was even a backliner.”

Jean stops listening at the word raven. He steels himself. “Have you spoken to the—to Coach Moriyama?”

“Not in years,” Kilpatrick says. “Not since all that crazy shit happened a couple years ago, for sure. How is he doing?”

“I think Mr. Pereira is right,” Jean says. “New York isn't right for me.”

“But Jean—”

Jean tunes him out. He shakes their hands, makes an excuse, and escapes to the shower.

The only thing that could make him play on a team with Raven infrastructure is force. He won't choose to put himself in that situation again. He doesn't know if it was Riko and Tetsuji who corrupted the Ravens or the other way around, but he is fundamentally uninterested in finding out. 

He wonders what Kevin would say. Take his chances in the draft, or sign now for one of the best teams in major league exy? What if he ends up like Jeremy, rotting on the bench and miserable? Jean doesn't think he'd care about riding the bench if it weren't for the potential Moriyama-related consequences. Miami could be dangerous.

He tears his gear off, not paying attention to undoing the straps neatly, and shoves it in his bag. Then he gets in a shower stall and stays there until someone flicks the curtain to tell him to hurry up.

“I think we should find you an agent,” Rheman tells Jean as their charter bus hurtles toward the hotel. “You didn't have one at the Ravens?”

“Mainly the master made all of our decisions for us. He put seniors in touch with Moriyama-approved agents before they graduated.”

“I'm not a businessman, so I probably can't negotiate a contract for you,” Rheman says. “But you know you can always come to me for advice, right?”

“I'm not going to New York.”

“You don't have to go to Miami, either. You know you'll have more options if you wait for the draft.”

“Fewer options,” Jean says. “If I wait for the draft, I have to let someone pick me, not the other way around.”

“Well, yeah, fewer options in that way.” Rheman passes Jean a Gatorade from his bulging duffle. “But you might be able to get more out of a contract if you wait for the draft.”

“Than I would at Miami?”

“If you don't want to go to Miami.”

Jean opens the Gatorade, drinks, contemplates. “How do I get an agent?”

“I can put you in touch with a couple. Don't screw me like Knox did, though, if my players keep picking fights with my friends I'm not going to have any friends pretty soon.”

“Jeremy picked a fight with his agent?”

“You'd know more about it than I would,” Rheman says. “You know Jeremy would rather learn how to drive than ask for help.”

“Yeah,” Jean says. He thinks about the way Jeremy looked the last time Jean saw him, mid-interview, how his smile was so brittle it threatened to crack right in two when the interviewer asked how he was settling in.

“Well, enjoy the party tonight,” Rheman says. “Don't overdo it. I'll get you in touch with some buddies on Monday.”

“Thank you,” Jean remembers to say, and then rests his head on the window until they get to the hotel.

*

Somehow, being Theo's roommate on hotel stays means Jean has to take up half the party-hosting mantle. Mostly all he does is uncap different types of juices and sports drinks for Theo's notorious jungle juice while Theo makes a playlist and chills various other types of alcohol.

“Hey, do you feel like there's anything to even see in Nashville?” Theo says. “Cause if not, I have way more rum than vodka, so we could make the jungle juice with that.”

Jean, who has been to Nashville exactly once before, when the Ravens played Vanderbilt during their year in the southeastern conference, raises an eyebrow and checks his phone. “The Johnny Cash Museum? Country Music Hall of Fame?”

“We can do that hungover,” Theo decides, opening a plastic bottle of rum and dumping the entire thing into the juice-Gatorade concoction. Jean winces. “Hey, what did those scouts want?”

“Typhoons and Leviathans,” Jean says. “I think what they wanted was obvious.”

“New York! Dude, that is so close to Connecticut, my parents can finally meet the amazing Jean Moreau.”

“I'm leaning toward Miami,” Jean says. “Or the draft.”

“I mean, you'd definitely be an early pick, but why not just be sure from the beginning? If you're already choosing between two of the best teams in the league?”

“The best teams never think the rules apply to them.” 

“Sure, but they can afford not to. Don't tell me you'd take a chance on somewhere like Boston or Seattle just out of, like, fear of injustice. This is exy, not—I don't know. Politics.”

“I haven't decided yet,” Jean says. “It's only January. I have time.”

“I mean, do you, obviously.” Theo hands Jean a glass of jungle juice. “Thoughts?”

Jean sips. “Tastes like juice.”

“Ideal. Let's go rally the troops.”

It's a typical Trojan party. Everyone piles in and drinks a lot, and everyone gets all up in each other's business. Jean is not immune: Alvarez catches him receiving a text from Rosaline and zeroes right in.

“That's still going on?” Alvarez says. “That's cool. Y'all are cute.”

“Why does that surprise you?”

“I don't know,” Alvarez says. “I guess I just sort of thought you were into someone else.”

“Someone else? Like who?”

“Don't make me say it,” Alvarez says.

“I am making you.”

“Just—you and Theo, it's super obvious—”

Jean is so surprised that he forgets to laugh. “ _Theo_?”

“No?”

“In his dreams, maybe.”

Theo drops in, an arm casual around Jean's shoulders. “I heard my name?”

“Jean says you two are no homo bros.”

“Actually, what I said was that we are more than no homo bros only in your dreams.”

Theo squeezes Jean's shoulders. “Unfortunately, yes, it is only in my dreams. They're good dreams, though, I'd treat you very well—”

Alvarez stares at both of them. “Seriously? This is nothing? You're not honestly—so you're still hung up on Jeremy?”

Jean almost drops his drink. “What?”

“I mean, you're obviously pining over someone, and you're always smiling at your phone and then just looking super sad—I guess I just assumed if it was fucking Jeremy something would've happened when you literally stayed at his house for two weeks.”

It's lucky that Theo is holding on to him, because otherwise Jean might have actually made a run for it. 

“Don't do that, Alvarez, he's seeing someone. Maybe she's the person he's been texting.”

“Except I just saw him text her, and his expression didn't change at all. That's really unfair, just so you know, to string someone along like that when you're into someone else—”

“I'm not stringing anyone along,” Jean says. “We are not together. We just sometimes—” He waves a hand in the air, but it does nothing to take the disapproval off Alvarez's face. 

“Just be an adult for five minutes and tell her.”

“I don't have to give every person I sleep with a complete psychological profile of myself,” Jean says. Sometimes he gets sick of how the Trojans always know each other's business. The Ravens did, too, but at least they weren't very judgmental. “She said she didn't want our relationship to be serious, and it is not, and we are both happy with that. And it is not really your concern anyway.”

Alvarez squeezes her solo cup so hard it starts to crack. “You're right,” she says. “It's none of my business, and I don't know the intricacies of all your bullshit. But you don't usually get this defensive.”

“Hey. We're all pretty buzzed. Let's be nice,” Theo says, looping his free arm through Alvarez's and steering both of them toward the drinks table. “Argue when you're sober, okay? For now, let's have fun. For once.”

*

The Lightyears kick off their postseason on a Saturday afternoon. The timing is all wrong for the Trojans, who will be up in the air the entire time on their flight home from Nashville.

Jean texts Jeremy as he boards the flight regardless, knowing Jeremy won't see it until he gets off the court. It doesn't make any sense to wish him luck, but Jean does anyway. Then he says, _i'm being scouted by miami and new york. thoughts?_ and puts his phone into airplane mode. 

Alvarez is a few seats behind. She mumbled an apology this morning at breakfast before burying herself in a stack of toast and pot of coffee.

Jean doesn't think she is right, but maybe she has a point. He doesn't owe Rosaline anything, not really. But maybe he owes it to himself to stop trying at something he obviously doesn't want. Maybe he owes it to himself to focus some of that energy on what he _does_ want.

He closes his eyes. It's four hours to L.A., and all Jean can think is that he saw Jeremy's name on the squad list for today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> home stretch guys, home stretch


	23. surprise

“If it were me, knowing everything I'd know now?” Jeremy says for what might be the twentieth time in the last two weeks. “I'd wait for the draft. Or even just reach out to some smaller teams, see if they'd be interested.” 

“Maybe,” Jean says. 

He doesn't feel like walking through this argument again—Miami are a sure thing, a safe bet, and they play good exy and are in a place he'd like to live. There is the chance he wouldn't start for them, which could fuck him over in the long run especially in regards to the longevity of his career and how much money he makes the Moriyamas. But there is also the chance that he will do well there. The draft might be a bigger risk, and in the end he might just end up riding the bench anyway. The only thing stopping him from calling Miami right now is how hard Jeremy keeps trying to convince him not to. 

“I can't really talk for super long,” Jeremy says. “I have practice. Apparently when they start actually playing you, they want you to do all these extra drills and stuff. I've spent half of last week in an ice bath.”

“Send a selfie next time,” Jean says without thinking, which makes Jeremy cough and then laugh. This was a lot easier before their aborted hookup, but honestly, it has been a year. Maybe it's time to get over it. “When are you in Phoenix?”

“Flying out tonight. ESPN-E did this comeback kid special. It was extremely embarrassing. I got so many texts from my high school teammates.”

It's an interesting shift from the regular season, when Jeremy was roundly ignored by the sports media. Maybe fighting with his agent actually worked out for him.

“I saw a preview for that,” Jean says. “It made me extremely excited to see the Cougars lose to the Lightyears tomorrow night.”

“Don't jinx us,” Jeremy replies. “By the way, I figured out my March plans. It's kind of messy, but I think I can come to your last game before spring break. Laila says it's at home?”

“Probably Binghamton, possibly the Ravens,” Jean says, as casually as he can. Facing the Ravens in L.A. isn't nearly as petrifying a thought as playing them in the Nest, but he'd rather avoid them all the same. “But yes, definitely in L.A.”

“I was planning on staying the night,” Jeremy says. “I kind of want to party with the Trojans, you know? For old times sake. And we could go to the beach or something the next day.”

“That sounds fun,” Jean says. “I look forward to it.”

*

“Draft picks don't matter that much,” Theo is saying. They're two rounds in at their hotel bar in Chicago after a full day of exy-playing and sightseeing. Most of the rest of the team has already gone to bed, but the fifth-years have staked a claim on the corner of the bar. “Not the order, anyway. Tom Brady was a sixth round pick, like two hundredth or something, and look at him now. Like, he won the Super Bowl his second season. He barely played his first season. He was literally an emergency sub.”

“Okay, Connecticut,” Katie says. “We get it. You're a Pats fan.”

When they got here, they asked the bartender to switch the TV nearest them to ESPN-E, which is currently playing highlights of the evening's playoffs games. The only big one is that the Lightyears' starting striker, a behemoth named Josh Rafferty, took a nasty check that had him taken off the court white-faced in a stretcher. Jeremy was subbed on and scored a hat trick. Katie had the presence of mind to tell them all not to text Jeremy their congratulations until Rafferty's well-being was verified. As of now, it has not been.

“Who is Tom Brady?” Jean asks.

Sweta is the only one who laughs. Katie says, “Quarterback for the New England Patriots, led the Pats to a bunch of Super Bowl victories—that's football's version of the playoffs final—”

“—and a fucking living legend,” Theo says. “Not that I watch football.” 

“Obviously,” Laila says, rolling her eyes. “I don't know. I like the idea of just saying yes to New York. Jean, why were you so opposed when you met the scout?”

“He is a former Raven.”

Laila winces. “Whoops. Makes sense.” 

“Do you know for sure you want to live in New York?” Katie asks. “I'm thinking draft, honestly—the only teams that have reached out are Seattle, and who wants to live there, and then I've heard a rumor Houston are looking for a sub striker, but with the season Jeremy's having, I definitely don't want to be in his shoes.”

“Why would they be looking for a sub striker?” Laila says. “They have one. They have three, actually, including L.A.'s own Jeremy Knox.”

“I'm just saying what I heard,” Katie says. “Rafferty's getting up there. They might be looking to trade him by the end of the season—especially with that leg injury, 'cause if it's really a hamstring you know it's going to keep coming back until he retires.”

Jean stirs his drink. The only person who knows enough about this to help him make an educated decision about it is halfway across the country right now. Jean saw the score for the Foxes' game. Fine, but their team is clearly having issues. It seems likely they won't make semifinals this year. 

He says, “The draft is a risk, but at least you know whoever picks you doesn't just want to make sure no one else gets you.”

“That's what I'm saying,” Theo says. “I feel like it's a good option, I don't know, I've literally only talked to San Diego and I really want to go back to the east coast.” 

Sweta waves at the bartender. “Really? I thought you loved the weed here.”

“Can't smoke if I'm playing exy.”

“Fair point.” 

Jean orders another round. An ESPN-E notification on his phone alerts him to an update on Rafferty's condition: out for the rest of the season. 

He texts Jeremy. _nice hat trick_

Jeremy's response comes around thirty seconds later: _am i a complete vulture if i'm secretly relieved about this?_

_yes, but i won't tell if you don't_

Jeremy sends back a shocked emoji. Jean suppresses a smile, catches Laila watching him across the bar, and hastily shoves his phone in his pocket.

*

Jean runs into Rosaline by chance almost immediately after getting back to USC. He's leaving the gym, and she honks at him from her car. When he stops to look, she whistles and then laughs.

“Jean Moreau, as I live and breathe,” she says when he comes up to her window. “Too busy to text back?”

“I've been flying a lot,” he says, which is true. “I did want to talk to you. Want to grab a drink tonight?”

Rosaline's gaze is steady. “Don't tell me you've been trying to ghost me.”

“I haven't. I've been trying to figure out how to do this.”

She drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “Did I do something?”

“No,” Jean says. “You are very sweet, and I've enjoyed getting to know you so much the last few months.”

“But …?”

This feels ridiculous to him. They aren't even really together. He doesn't know why he feels guilty.

“I'm interested in someone else, and I think it wouldn't be honest to anyone involved if we keep going.”

“You know you don't have to be in love with me or anything,” Rosaline says. “That's the whole point.”

“I know.”

“Okay,” Rosaline says. Her jaw works for a moment, and then she says, “Okay. Thanks for being honest. I guess.”

“Rosaline—”

“Were you going to tell me, or were you just going to hope we never saw each other again?”

“Of course I was going to tell you,” Jean says. “We haven't had time to talk.”

Rosaline relents. “Okay. Sure. Fine. I'll see you around, I guess.”

She swerves away. Jean doesn't think she even put the car in park the whole time they were talking.

*

“And the dreams have gotten better?”

That's what Jean and Amir have been working on the last few weeks—some psychological strategy that requires Jean to spill everything, then rethink the way he thinks about it. It took more out of Jean than he likes to admit.

“Yes,” Jean says. 

“Completely?”

“Not quite.”

“Let's spend today working some more on that.”

It makes sense; this is what Jean and Amir have planned to do to get him ready to graduate and move somewhere else with some other therapist. Mitigate his worst symptoms and manage the others until he connects with someone new. 

“I want to talk about something else first,” Jean says.

“Of course. This is your time.”

“I want to talk about Kevin.”

Amir leans back in his chair a little. He makes a tiny note on his notepad. “Okay.”

“We weren't really friends,” Jean says. “More like—I don't know how to put words to it. We were stuck together, and we were each other's only comfort. And then he left.”

“And you blame him for abandoning you?”

“No. I can't fault him for trying so hard to save his own life. He—when he left, he was in terrible shape. I know you do not follow exy, but imagine if—who is a famous soccer player?”

Amir's eyebrows rise. “Lionel Messi.”

“Okay, imagine if Lionel Messi showed up after a big award ceremony where he'd won the award. And he was on vacation with his closest rival and teammate, so close they were like brothers. And he came back, and Lionel Messi's foot is smashed so badly doctors say he will never be able to walk on it again, let alone kick a ball. And he says it was a skiing accident, but you know the rival couldn't take being second best, and instead of working to overcome Messi, smashed his foot. And Messi has a chance to escape, but it means leaving you to the rival. Messi runs away to his father. You suffer the consequences. For _months_. It isn't his fault. The injury almost ended his career.”

“Regardless,” Amir says, “you are trying to repair something that broke because he left.”

“It was never not broken.”

“What do you want, Jean? Do you want to rebuild your relationship with Kevin? Do you want to be friends again? Do you want closure?”

“I just want this to be over,” Jean says. He's so sick of all of it. He hates that he'll be tied to it forever. “I want him to be happy.”

“And for yourself?”

“I want to be happy, too.”

“What do you need to get there?”

He needs to be at peace with his future. He needs to be honest. He needs to be okay with the fact that he survived this all somehow. “I want to stop being scared.”

“What are you so scared of?”

Jean remembers being asked that once, in an indoor pool in the middle of the night. He tears his gaze away from Amir's face and looks out the window, where across the street the blank face of a building stares back. 

“I never feel like I have a complete handle on what is happening in my life. Someone else is always making life decisions for me.” The master, Riko, Neil Josten, Kevin and Jeremy, Rheman. An agent. Scouts. The draft. “I'm worried that the minute I fall out of line, I'll be punished, and all the work I've done will be just—” Jean waves a hand in the air. “Nothing.”

“So you aren't worried about your lack of control. You're worried you'll misbehave.”

It sounds so horrifically pathetic when Amir says it. Jean slides a fingernail between the woven threads on the broken couch, unravels the fabric, twists the little threads between his fingertips.

“I don't know,” he says finally. “I don't want to fuck up.”

“Are you going to talk to Kevin?”

“Yes,” Jean says. “I need his help.”

Amir smiles. “Let me know how it goes.”

*

Because Kevin is Kevin, he doesn't answer the phone immediately, and when he does he says, “What's going on? I'm in the middle of practice.”

It's one in the morning on the east coast. Jean genuinely tried to avoid cutting into practice. “Try again,” he says.

Kevin sighs. “Hi, Jean.”

“Hi, Kevin.”

The line is dead for a second. Jean has no idea how to proceed with this, and clearly Kevin doesn't, either.

“Are you—” Kevin says, and then, carefully, “Is something the matter?”

“No,” Jean says. “I just wanted to talk.”

Another brief silence. “Oh.”

“If you can't—”

“No, just give me a second. Neil and Andrew are being nosy.” 

Jean can actually picture it. He waits, listens to the sounds of Kevin telling them to wait for him in the locker room and then walking off somewhere. 

Eventually Kevin says, “Do I need to be worried?”

“Because the only reason I would call you is to threaten you?”

“Worried about _you_ , Jean.” 

Jean winces. “Oh. No. I—I feel like. I mean, I think it is important for us to talk.”

“Okay. What about?”

“Are you sure you don't want to get a drink first?”

Kevin exhales on the other end. It is almost, Jean thinks, the ghost of a laugh. “How do you know that is not what I'm doing right now?”

“Are you?”

Another long silence. “Yes.” Then: “What do you need to say?”

Jean stares at his blank computer screen, willing it to produce some script so he doesn't fuck all of this up. He wants to say, was it worth it? Meaning, did you get what you wanted when you left me behind? Was being with your father and his broken team a good trade for what Riko put me through for over a year? 

But he can't quite get the words out. He doesn't know what he wants the answer to be. Yes, I'm glad I traded you for the Foxes? I'm glad I let you suffer in exchange for my own personal health and safety? Or no, I wish hadn't? It wasn't worth it? You suffered for nothing? 

Instead Jean says, “Are you happy?” He says it in French. It was always easier to get his feelings out that way when it came to Kevin.

On the other end, Kevin sighs. “I don't know. What does that even mean? I'm just glad that I am alive and playing exy.”

“Is there a difference?” Jean asks. 

Kevin is like Jeremy in that way. Obsessive. Single-minded. Jean remembers the week after the championship final, Jeremy borderline comatose until his meds kicked in, making it to class only because Jean nagged him into going. Jean doesn't know if exy is a cure for depression or just a distraction from it, but for Jeremy and Kevin, it might as well be the only thing that matters. Except, Jeremy said, for accoutrements. 

“I don't know,” Kevin says again. He pauses, then adds, “I think you should sign with Miami. They desperately need a new backliner. You would not end up riding the bench if they offered you a contract this early.”

“The Lightyears offered Jeremy a contract in January,” Jean reminds him.

“That's different. The Lightyears have a different business model. They are more interested in being marketable than in developing players. Look at Rosa—he barely played his first season with the Lightyears, and now he comes on for fifteen minutes to defend when the Lightyears are already winning. Miami gives rookies a fair chance, especially when they are good.”

“How did you know this was why I called you?”

“I would have called you myself,” Kevin admits. “I thought you might not want to talk to me. I was going to ask Jeremy to pass on the message. And—I know you pretty well, I think.”

“Jeremy thinks I should wait for the draft,” Jean says. “Take my chances in June. But if the Moriyamas find out I had a chance to play for Miami and did not take it …”

“I think you should just—” Kevin sighs again, switches to French. “Don't be afraid.” 

There's a surge of some nostalgic angst in Jean's chest. He remembers saying those words to Kevin himself, hearing them echoed back, trying to find strength and comfort in someone just as weak, just as much of a target. Of course it never worked. They were both always afraid. 

“I'm not,” Jean says. It's not even a lie. He doesn't feel afraid right now. Not about this. 

“Make a decision, but think about what you want. Not just what they want you to do.”

“How can I not think about that?” Jean asks. “Aren't you thinking about that?”

“Of course I am. But if you think Miami is not right for you, don't go just because you think they will come after you if you don't. You have already lived like that, and you didn't like it.”

“Will they?” Jean says. “If I do what I like?”

“As long as what you like is exy, I do not think that they will. You have a deal.”

“With no enforcement mechanism on their end.”

“Except my contract,” Kevin says. “And Neil's.”

Jean doesn't say anything. Is he supposed to believe Neil and Kevin will withhold their own tithes if the Moriyamas come after Jean? 

Maybe he really does know him pretty well, because then Kevin says, “Jean, I wanted to say—I just wish—”

“I know,” Jean interrupts. This probably isn't what Amir had in mind, but he doesn't think he can sit here and listen to Kevin do this on the phone. He doesn't know if he ever wants to hear it, even if it's really how Kevin feels, which seems impossible. How can he be sorry for leaving, really? When it probably saved his life? When it set off the entire chain of events that led to where they are now? Kevin wouldn't change it. Would Jean? 

Kevin says, “I miss being your friend.”

“We were never friends, Kevin.” 

Because they weren't. They were something else, maybe something more, some fucked up Stockholm syndrome version of siblings, and just because Jean was half in love with Kevin didn't make it any less fucked up. 

“Maybe we can be now.” 

Jean loves Kevin, but he doesn't want to overestimate the good will he feels toward him. After all, it was Renee who broke him out of Castle Evermore, Neil Josten who traded Jean's life for his future. For all Jean knows, Kevin had nothing to do with it. 

Except it was Kevin who gave Renee his number. Kevin who asked Jeremy to fit a backliner into the Trojans' squad.

Jean says, “Maybe. What are you doing next year?”

“L.A.,” Kevin says. “Big city with a team chock full of potential.”

“You are going to fix them too?”

“They don't need fixing,” Kevin replies. “They need a striker, and they can't afford Jeremy's contract.”

“And?”

“And I'm better.”

Jean remembers that, sharp as the sting of a cigarette against his wrist. Kevin rarely said it out loud. He wonders what it means that he can now, thinks about the shape of a chess piece on Kevin's cheek. Jean presses a finger to the tattoo on his own face, and is surprised to find that he is smiling.

*

The Trojans all pile into Laila's room on Saturday night to watch the Lightyears host L.A. Jeremy doesn't get a start, but he comes on halfway through the first half and dominates, completely takes over his favored righthand side of the court, scores three goals. After halftime, he's back on the court and scores two more. The crowd chants his name. Jeremy grins, triumphant.

He ends up being one of the Lightyears with a microphone shoved in his face at the end of the game. Jeremy always looks his best immediately after a sound win; sweaty, out of breath, cheeks flushed, grinning. Arrogance looks good on him, Jean thinks.

“So, Jeremy, does this mean you're the Lightyears' newest star?” a reporter asks.

Jeremy pauses for a moment before answering. “I'm always trying to find the best place for myself,” he says. 

Jean blinks. If he didn't know better, he'd think Jeremy were putting himself in the shop window. 

“Does that mean you've finally settled in here?”

Jeremy smiles. “Like I've said,” he says, “Houston is a beautiful city. I'll miss it.”

He ends the interview then, turning away from the reporter and pushing his way into the locker room. The reporter looks a little surprised, but then she turns to the camera, summarizes everything Jeremy said.

“Holy shit,” Alvarez says. “Is he _leaving_?”

“Last I talked to him, he was looking at Boston,” Laila replies. “I don't know if the deal went through or not yet.”

Jeremy didn't say a thing, and Jean talks to him almost every day. Of course he knew this was a possibility—Jeremy is obviously miserable in Houston—but he expected to know about it before Jeremy announced it. 

“He always does this,” Alvarez says. She is sitting right next to Laila; Jean wonders if it means anything. “Jesus. I wish just once he'd talk through a problem instead of just diving into a potential new problem.” She looks over at Jean. “Did you know about this?”

“I knew he was unsettled,” Jean says. “He never mentioned he was in talks to leave. Especially not to somewhere like Boston.” 

Jean assumed if Jeremy left the Lightyears, he'd go to another top team. Boston are in the playoffs for their second straight year, but they're a single loss away from crashing right out. They don't just need a new striker. They need at least a new striker, a backliner, and a goalie. They probably need a new coach. 

When he looks up, Laila is looking back at him. He wonders when he became this transparent. He swears he used to be better at keeping his thoughts off his face.

“Jesus Christ,” Alvarez says again. “For someone who literally wears every single emotion he's ever had on his sleeve, he really does like to surprise everyone.”

Jean picks up his phone, brushes a finger over the home button. He could send a text and clarify all of this. Instead he puts the phone in his pocket and gets up to refill his drink.

*

The Trojans host Duke, and it's a shitshow. Duke are all over the place defensively; they don't fall into the usual mark-Jean-Moreau trap other teams fall into, so there isn't extra space for the strikers, but they play with an offensive dealer and spend the whole game driving forward. Unfortunately, their strikers rarely find the target despite seeing significantly more of the ball than Katie, Pilar, or Benji. The Trojans put a few goals in the box and sub on Alvarez to shut the backline down. It's enough.

They celebrate despite the relatively scrappy win. Laila gets their customary fleet of Ubers, but Jean and Theo ride with Laila.

She doesn't talk much throughout the ride to Sticks and Nets. She lets Theo take control of the music, focuses on driving, and lets Jean and Theo's conversation pass right over her. This is not as unusual a sight as it might once have been.

“You good?” Jean says when they're inside the bar, Laila stirring a Coke while he nurses something ginny. 

“I love that 'you good' is such a Trojan catchphrase,” Laila says. She deconstructs an onion ring, stripping it of its coating and separating the onion itself. “Like, what does that say about us? We just go around constantly asking each other if we're okay, but actually we're all just fucking suffering all the goddamn time—”

“I'm not suffering,” Jean says, which makes Laila snort.

“Please. You think I don't notice, but I notice.” 

Jean allows it. “Okay. Theo is not suffering. Katie is thriving. Sweta is about to have a very promising future as a novelist or something.”

“I have a promising future, okay, that's not what I meant.” 

Jean follows Laila's gaze to Alvarez, whose head rests on Theo's shoulder. She looks very calm and very at peace, but Jean knows better: this is Alvarez on her way to drunk.

“You decided to cut your losses,” Jean says. “Was it worth it?”

“No,” Laila says, breaking another onion ring apart and slowly shredding it. “But how am I supposed to fix it? We were so broken for so long.”

“I am very far from an expert,” Jean says. “But I think if anyone can fix it, it would be the two of you.”

“I've just never felt like anyone has understood me the way she does. I know I'm the one who ended it, and I know it was a mess, and I still want her back. That's crazy, right?”

Jean swipes an onion ring from Laila's plate. “Like I said, I'm not an expert. But it does not feel that crazy.”

“Maybe you're right,” Laila says. “I mean, if we're both miserable apart, what's the point?”

Jean feels absurdly like he's won an argument. He finishes his drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com)! please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo.


	24. choice

The Typhoons scout, Danny Pereira, sends Jean a shot of the beach. It's a little sleazy; he makes no effort to hide the fact that he's surrounded by a ton of very attractive people in swimsuits. He accompanies it with the message, _This is what you're missing, Jean!_

It isn't Pereira's text that does it, really. Jean has been teeter tottering for weeks. All the evidence piles up on one side, and then on the other side there is Jeremy, weighing everything down. But Jeremy is moving on with his own life, making his own plans, and he doesn't seem to be taking Jean's opinions into consideration. Amir suggested it, and he was right: Jean can't assign more weight to Jeremy's opinion just because of Jean's feelings for him. 

So Jean calls his new agent, herself a college athlete. After graduating, she went into sports publicity and then became a sports agent. She played field hockey at UCLA and never left the west coast. She also, Rheman promised him, can keep a secret.

“Hi, Nadia,” Jean says when she answers. “I wanted to talk to you about next year.”

“You make a decision yet?”

“I want to negotiate a contract with Miami,” Jean says. “I will be donating a large portion of my paycheck to some charities, so I need to make sure I will have enough left over to pay for housing and food.”

“Remind me exactly how large that portion is?”

“Eighty percent.”

Nadia whistles. “Generous.”

Generosity has nothing to do with it. Jean waits.

“Look,” Nadia says. “The reality of it is that you're a backliner, so you're not going to be making ten mill right off the bat. But you're also agreeing to the terms of your contract before the draft, so Miami don't have to take any risks, so they'll be willing to give you a little more than the average first round draft pick might take in. How much do you need to live? We can work backwards from that.”

Jean blinks, a little alarmed. He knows there is a lot of money in exy—it is, after all, the only reason he is still alive—but he wasn't expecting her to say anything near that. He was trying to figure out how he would be able to live off a tiny fraction of a regular salary.

“I don't know,” he says, which is honest. “I have to pay for a house and food and utilities. I already have a car, but I will have to start making my own insurance payments after graduating.”

“We'll get you what you need,” Nadia assures him. “And don't forget. You can do sponsorships, endorsement deals, sell hair products on Instagram—you're not going to need to worry about money. I can set you up with a financial advisor to help you save once we have the terms of your contract laid out, and of course we need to figure out what kind of bonuses you're going get—”

Jean stops listening. There's an odd buzzing in his head; this contract is going to save his life, and then he can finally breathe a little easier. He could wait until the draft, but a better offer than Miami is not going to come in, so why bother? Kevin says Miami plays rookies. It is a beautiful city, multicultural, diverse, beachy, everything he loved about Marseille and loves about L.A. It isn't even three hours away from Houston on a plane, and there has been no news on Jeremy's potential transfer yet. Jean can have a big house by the beach, adopt his own pets, not worry that if he gets injured he'll die—because unlike in college exy, he will have a contract. He will have insurance on his body. He will gain fame and notoriety, and then maybe when he has to retire he can make a new deal with the Moriyamas.

The salary is good, and that will please the Moriyamas. The location is incredible. He trusts Kevin. 

Miami feels right.

There is only the question of how to tell Jeremy.

*

The Trojans are at the airport waiting for a flight to Indiana when they all get an ESPN-E alert in unison: the Boston Minutemen have just been knocked out of the playoffs; Boston's new ownership deal has officially gone through; and the new owner has announced the acquisition of three new players. Among them: Jeremy Knox, who will leave Houston at the end of the playoff season.

Jean peels away from the rest of his team, wanders past a Costa Cafe, and calls Jeremy. 

Jeremy picks up immediately, grinning out of Jean's phone. 

“I heard the news,” Jean says. “Congratulations. You're free.”

Jeremy's smile widens. “I know. Jesus, I seriously can't believe it.”

“What happened to calling me before you made any big decisions?” 

“I don't know, it was kind of an impulse thing honestly. After I saw you—I don't know, I just went from being sad to being pissed off about how much of my life I just couldn't control, so I took control. I knew they were getting bought out, I knew they needed a striker, so I asked my agent to put feelers out. We had a fight about it, but he eventually agreed with me.”

“Pissed off,” Jean echoes. “No wonder you scored so many goals against L.A.”

“Yeah, well, I've been channeling rage into goals since I was a literal tiny child, so.” Jeremy tilts his head to the side. There's that squeezing in Jean's chest again. He forgot how much he liked this: Jeremy, smiling. “What about you? Any updates on the draft and stuff?”

Jean opens his mouth to tell him, but then he changes his mind. He knows Jeremy won't like it, and he doesn't want to ruin this delicate new happiness. 

Of course, that means Jeremy misreads Jean's silence. “It's fine. You'll end up somewhere good. Hey, Boston need a backliner, if you like snow.”

“Do you plan to recruit Laila and Katie, too? Just rebuild your Trojans across the country?”

“My championship-winning Trojans? Why not? I'll call Ro.”

Jean has to tell him. He _has_ to tell him. 

But not just yet.

Instead, he smiles back. “Well, I am very happy to see you so happy, but I have a flight to board.”

“Good luck in Indiana,” Jeremy says. “We'll talk later?”

“See you soon,” Jean says.

“If the Lightyears haven't killed me for letting Boston make the announcement so early, that is.”

“Having met the type of exy overlords who don't mind killing their players, I feel I can safely say that the Lightyears aren't the murderous type.”

Jeremy laughs. “You're probably right,” he says. “Have a safe flight.”

Jean hangs up.

He has to tell him.

*

Jean likes the library, the incomplete quiet of it, the sounds of people typing and turning pages and groaning at their work. This semester, he is taking two film classes, accelerated Spanish, and a French lit class actually taught in French. It has been his first semester ever actually enjoying his courses—he keeps picking up more of the Spanish his teammates fling at each other during practice, and he has never spent much time with the French classics, so that feels good too.

He always used to sit near the film section of the library, but that feels like Rosaline's territory now, so instead Jean settles in the literature section. Everyone in the room wears glasses and spends significantly more time glaring at computer screens than actually typing. 

Jean takes a sip of coffee and refocuses his attention on his own computer. He has multiple midterm papers to write, and all of them involve either reading dense books or watching dense films. He thinks this is one of the first times he has studied alone all semester—usually another Trojan or two will join him, and of course Rosaline was a constant fixture across him when they were hanging out.

It's nice. It's nice the way having his own room is nice, the way long solo drives are nice. As a temporary recharging measure, a reassurance that even when he is not surrounded by his teammates he is still capable of being a person—that he is not just a part of a whole, but a whole in his own right.

Jean finds himself touching the number tattooed on his cheek. Third out of—what? Six? Twenty-five?

He looks at the clock and realizes with a jolt that he has been at the library for almost an hour and a half without even opening his word processor. He puts all thought of his tattoo out of his head and tries to focus on Madame Bovary.

*

The Trojans are on a winning streak.

No striker really compares to Jeremy, and while Benji and Pilar do a good job of picking up the slack between them, the team's scoring record is far from what it was.

But it almost doesn't even matter. The Trojans can shut down the goal if need be, grind out low-scoring wins. It isn't the most exciting exy, but, Jean thinks before a scrap against Northwestern, exy isn't graded on execution. It is graded on goals.

Northwestern are just as defensive as the Trojans have become, but they lack the precision. The Trojans can play keep-away with the ball even if they can't score with it, pass it between dealers and backliners and bounce it back to the goalie and on and on until the opposition tires out. Northwestern just don't have that kind of stamina.

It means they give up fouls. Thirty minutes in, Jean has drawn multiple fouls from the backliner making a mess of marking him and Benji. One finally leads to a penalty, which Jean takes with all the panache of a backliner called up to score an easy goal. 

When Jean gets subbed off, he strips off his shirt and armor and gets his shoulder taped. It is throbbing already from how many times he has been thrown into the wall. The actual Trojan attack isn't faring much better. Benji is bleeding, and Katie ices her wrist through Laila's halftime talk.

They're up two-nothing. They need to maintain the advantage and, ideally, put more points on the board. 

Jean watches the beginning of the second half from the bench. Fran looks intimidating from her spot on the right. She's gotten bigger over the course of the season, but she is still the smallest player on the court. Jean doesn't know how she still manages to project that “I will fucking hurt you if you come near me” aura: he has always relied on his size and skill to look scary. 

The Northwestern dealer, Arias, gets first serve, and he swings it back to his backliner. But Northwestern are two goals down, so they can't afford to keep the ball on their half of the court for long. They play keep-away for a while, but eventually one of their strikers, Eboue, jogs past Fran and catches a pass from Arias.

Fran is there a second too late, knocking into Arias elbows first and getting a yellow card for her efforts. In an effort to keep things mostly defensive, Rheman has Theo switch place with her instead of Jean, which is fine by Jean. Northwestern get a penalty, and it's Eboue who goes to take it, squaring up against Mo.

Mo bangs the butt of his stick against the floor. Eboue takes the shot. It's perfectly on target, but Mo's racquet comes out of nowhere, bats the ball back. Eboue scoops it up and soots again, but this time Mo catches it in his hand and holds on tight.

The Trojan Arena erupts, and Mo raises his fist in triumph. He waits for the team to reset, then bangs the ball all the way to the other side of the court. It rebounds for Katie, who takes the shot without waiting, and scores.

It's the only point of interest in the entire second half. The Trojans do not score again, and Northwestern pick up a goal close to the end of the game, but otherwise it is one of the most mind-numbing games of exy Jean has ever watched, let alone played in.

“A win is a win is a win,” Rheman says when they gather in the locker room afterward. “The winning team isn't the one that plays better exy.”

“Which, to be clear, we still did,” Laila says. “Drinks on the Trojans?”

“Pour one out for poor Eboue,” Rheman says. “And for me. Congrats on a good win, kids. See you Sunday.”

*

Their next game is at Ohio State. It has the same vibe, a win ground out by relying on the defense for all ninety minutes. Jean feels battered after, but in the good tough exy game way. It's only recently that he has started to figure out the difference between this and—that.

They go to their hotel after, the same giant chain the Trojans always stay at. They have a business rewards membership there. Usually they get at least a meal comped.

Which is why Jean needs to hear the person at the front desk repeat herself.

“I'm so sorry,” she says again. “We only have a single left, and we're all out of rollaway beds. The two of you will have to share.”

Theo glances at Jean, and then he claps him on the back.

“It's no problem,” Theo says. “We can cuddle.”

“This is ridiculous,” Jean says when they're given their room keys and sent after the rest of the Trojans to their rooms. “We are probably their best customers. Thirteen rooms every two weeks?”

“You don't strike me as the kind of person to complain about service,” Theo says, pushing their floor number. 

“I am not complaining about the service, it just reeks of incompetence to me that we are such regular customers and always get the same set of rooms and then this time—” Jean sighs. “Maybe there is a conference or something.”

“Are you that stressed about this? You can take the couch, but I didn't think you'd be having, like, gay panic or anything.”

“It's not that,” Jean says. He doesn't know how to say that he is just exhausted and wants to collapse into his own bed. “You're right. I'm having gay panic.”

Theo laughs, and they push into their room.

It turns out that crashing is just as easy with someone else in the bed when the other person is equally exhausted. There was some talk on their bus ride home about getting drinks at the hotel bar, but no one is in the mood, and they have an early flight in the morning. 

Jean goes out like a candle. 

He wakes up sore and bruised, but at breakfast Laila and Alvarez sit next to each other, and Alvarez wipes egg off Laila's chin, and it is sweet enough that Jean doesn't even care how much pain he's in.

*

He catches Laila at the airport. Their flight is horrifically delayed, and most of the Trojans head for a bar. Laila, who doesn't drink, hangs back at Starbucks. Jean follows her, but she barely seems to notice. She watches across the walkway, where Alvarez laughs with her head thrown back and a hand wrapped around a pint of beer.

“Very cute,” Jean says. 

“Grande caramel macchiato,” she says automatically. “And a water please.”

“I did not ask, but I'll get that.”

“Sure,” Laila says. 

Jean laughs and gets the coffee. Laila finally pays attention when Jean sits down with their drinks.

“So it worked,” Jean says.

“I can't believe that of all the people in the entirety of—not even just the team, but all of USC, all of L.A., maybe the entire western seaboard—you were the one who gave me the only advice that worked.” 

“They say it is those who are least lucky in love who give the best advice.”

“You should narrate a movie about star-crossed lovers,” Laila says. “You're cheesy enough.”

“Cheesy feels like yet another French stereotype,” Jean replies. “I should start adding up these microaggressions.”

“If anyone gets to be anti-France, it's me.” Laila rips the plastic sleeve off her water bottle and starts folding it accordion-style. “I mean it, though. Thanks for stepping in.”

“Of course,” Jean says. “You were both miserable. Anyone could see that. Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Yeah, I mean, basically just everything you said. Like—we decided—I mean, the odds of it working out like this, potentially permanently long distance, super busy all the time, plus there's all this scrutiny, and I already have to deal with the, like, hijabi bullshit—the odds are just so fucking slim. But you know what else the odds are so fucking slim for? Being a pro fucking athlete. But we put—I mean, we just put years into that, and now I'm going to probably either be a first round draft pick or I'm going to go to New York or something, so—I don't know. Maybe that super slim chance is worth it.”

“If you think that, you're probably right,” Jean says. 

“I mean, I'm usually right, right?” Laila says. “I mean, when have I ever been wrong, right?”

“Breaking up with her in the first place?” Jean suggests.

“Okay, fuck you. But I mean—I just feel like I'm—I don't know. I wanted to tell you. I think you should try, too.”

Jean raises an eyebrow. “Try what, exactly?”

“With Jeremy.”

“Laila,” Jean says. “I tried already. Twice. It did not work.”

“You want to, though. I can tell.”

“I just can't see how the response would be any different.”

“Do it right for once,” Laila says. “Just totally sober. Ask him how he feels and tell him how you feel.”

“I already tried,” Jean says again, but there's that squeezing in his chest, and he's smiling, and fuck, maybe she's right. Jeremy hasn't given him a real reason to believe it wouldn't work, not really, not recently. 

“Just give it a shot,” Laila says. “What's the worst that could happen?”

It's the question that follows him onto their flight when it finally boards a few hours later. He stretches his legs next to Katie and tries to think of what Amir would tell him to do if he were here.

Make a pros and cons list. That is what Amir would say. Make a pros and cons list.

Jean can do that. It's a manageable task for a five hour flight. 

Pro: Jeremy will know, and maybe it will work.

Con: Maybe it won't.

Con: Maybe Jeremy won't reciprocate, and Jean has made all this up in his head. Maybe Jeremy will say, No, you're ridiculous, that's stupid, who would ever—

Pro: Jeremy would never say that.

Con: Maybe he wouldn't say that, but he might think it, and then he would separate from Jean, and the entire foundation of Jean's recovery would crumble, because Jean Moreau is an idiot and built it on another person.

Pro: Jeremy loves him and is personally invested in ensuring that Jean does not crumble.

Con: Jean can't know that for sure.

Con: He can't know anything for sure. It's terrifying. 

Con: He definitely can't handle a huge rejection right now.

Pro: Jeremy would not reject him. He would let him down easy. It's Jeremy Knox. He would probably let the devil down easy.

The worst case scenario is that Jeremy says no, and they stop talking. Maybe for a long time. Maybe not. Jeremy isn't the type of bitter to try and break up all of Jean's relationships, but maybe Jeremy's friends would take his side anyway. 

But the worst case scenario if Jean does not tell him is that this just eats him up forever. He doesn't say anything, and he is miserable and sick and being completely dishonest with his best friend. This—friendship—obviously isn't enough, but Jeremy doesn't know why Jean is so frustrated, and it is not Jeremy's fault. Jean can wreck all of this by keeping his mouth shut.

If he talks, it's a risk, but if he doesn't, it's sure annihilation. 

“You are so melodramatic,” Laila tells him when he explains this on their ride home from the airport. “We're talking about Jeremy Knox here. You could tell him you'd killed someone and he'd help you hide from the cops.”

“Yes, we've already established that he is perfect,” Jean snaps. “That's the problem.”

Laila sighs. “I can't wait for this to be over.”

“You will just have to hear me whine about him saying no.”

“Or worse, about how happy you are that he said yes.” Laila laughs. “Just kidding. I hope he does. I know he will. I'm excited that you're finally going to do this.”

“Right,” Jean says. “Me too.”

Excited isn't the right word. Nervous is more accurate, terrified even better. 

But he is going to do it. He is going to tell Jeremy everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whats about to happen bitch!!!
> 
> i'm on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com). please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	25. jeremy

Before Miami, Jean had never really taken a leap of faith. Every other big decision in his life was made for him. He didn't even have a say in the basics—someone else told Jean what to eat for breakfast, what kind of car to get, how to walk.

His first leap of faith was Miami.

His second will be Jeremy.

Jean tries to rationalize away the size of the leap: Jeremy is obviously physically into him; he has made that clear on multiple occasions. And they are alarmingly close for friends, but all the Trojans are like that. Except more than one Trojan has pointed out that Jeremy and Jean are closer than the other Trojans. Which must mean something. It just has to. 

If it doesn't—

If it doesn't, then it doesn't, but if it does, then it does, and that deserves a leap even if Jean can't be sure what he will find.

*

An entire welcome committee hops into Jean's car to pick Jeremy up from the airport. Laila, Alvarez, and Katie take control of the music while Jean navigates them down the highway. 

It's worth it, though, because Jeremy beams when he sees them. He hugs them all and—Jean thinks, confidence heavy in his chest—definitely hugs Jean the longest. 

“You're crashing with me,” Alvarez tells Jeremy. “Or, I mean, in my room I guess, because I'm going to stay with LDA.”

“I thought you didn't like that abbreviation,” Jeremy replies, tightening his seatbelt in the passenger seat and digging around in Jean's glove box for something. “Hey, I haven't had a chance to formally congratulate you two on finally getting the fuck back together.”

“You and Alvarez can stop divvying up my estate now,” Laila says, dry. “I don't like the idea that she would get full custody of you, by the way. What about visitation?”

“You'd get Jean. It's only fair.”

“Because the two of you are a pair?” Katie asks. Jean thinks he can detect a hint of faux innocence in her tone. “Like the two Lindsay Lohans in the Parent Trap?”

“Exactly,” Alvarez says without a hint of irony. “Exactly like that. And Jean might have the nicer car, but my family already loves Jeremy, so I feel like I won the divorce.”

Jeremy finds what he was looking for—a box of mints that has probably been there since the previous spring; Jean certainly can't remember buying them or putting them there—and laughs. “At least it wasn't permanent, right? Who are y'all playing tonight?”

Jean barely remembers. 

“Penn,” Laila tells him. “As in University of, not State. Who knew they had an exy team that could make it to the death rounds?”

“Won't be there for long, I guess,” Jeremy says. He goes into some complicated analysis of Penn-as-in-University-of-not-State's typical game plan. Jean lets the lilt of Jeremy's voice wash over him and just focuses on driving.

*

There is a knock at Jean's door. He is barely surprised to see Jeremy behind it, wearing a full suit and nursing a bottle of Gatorade.

“You look good,” Jean says, letting himself linger on the once-over. “Your tie is crooked.”

The shadow of a smile passes over Jeremy's face. “Maybe I'm not great at tying them.”

“Maybe you should look up a video.”

“Maybe I should.” 

Jeremy's smile is infectious. It feels like a dare.

Jean says, “Want me to fix it?”

He watches for Jeremy's reaction, the switch in his smile from lazily confident to alert, the way his throat moves when he swallows. Jean can't be imagining this.

“Yes, please.” 

Jean fixes the tie. He takes his time with it, lays a hand flat on Jeremy's chest when he's done to smooth down his shirt. He wonders how far he could go right now—move his hand under Jeremy's jacket, push Jeremy onto his bed, pull him close by his freshly-fixed tie … 

It's not the time. He has a game to get to. There will be time for that later.

“You look good,” Jean says again, because Jeremy does, even if he is in Lightyears colors. Jeremy is standing completely still, but he's smiling. “I want to talk to you after the game.”

It takes Jeremy a long time to answer. “Everything okay?”

Jean definitely isn't imagining it. “Everything is perfect.”

Jeremy clears his throat. “Should we get going?”

“You can stay here if you think you'll get bored waiting for the game to start,” Jean says. The Trojans have to be there way before doors close for the audience. 

“My stuff is in Alvarez's room.”

Jean thinks about telling him to go get it, but he has learned not to be presumptuous.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “You can ride with me, but Theo will probably fight you for shotgun.”

The ghost of a smile plays over Jeremy's lips. “Will he win?”

“He is very competitive.” 

Jean makes to take a step back, but Jeremy's hand closes around his wrist. “So am I.”

Someone knocks on the door. It's probably Theo, here to usher Jean out to the court. 

“Find me after the game,” Jean says. “I really want to talk.”

Jean wishes he could throw caution to the winds and kiss Jeremy right now, but he's tried that before and it didn't work out. Jeremy likes to talk. They'll talk. Kissing can come later.

Theo knocks again. “I can hear you guys talking, you know!”

Jeremy laughs and drops Jean's wrist. They don't touch again.

*

The giddiness from their conversation, the confidence of it, carries Jean through the game. For once, it feels like they're on the same page, full capable of actually just talking through everything and coming to some conclusion that benefits them both. He is impatient through Laila's team talk and fidgety through the first few minutes of the first half, right up until he is shoving his shoulder into an opposing player's chest and catching the ball when it bounces out of their racquet. 

Jean carries it up the righthand side, narrowly avoiding a check from a Penn player and making a last-second pass to Pilar. Pilar sprints the rest of the way to the goal, shoots, and scores, then jogs back to celebrate with Jean. The Trojans are at their best like this, when defense connects easily with offense and they can do more than just grind out wins. Penn is an easy target—they should never have made it this far in championships, and now they are as far from Philly as they have been all season and thoroughly outmatched.

Jean doesn't get high off exy wins like Jeremy and Laila do, but he is still human. He does still like it. Winning is good; winning well is better.

He looks around at the crowd when Laila lifts her racquet in triumph and sprints forward into the fray of Trojans celebrating their semifinal qualification. He can't make out Jeremy's dark tousled hair from here, but he can picture it. That smile. Pride and joy.

*

“Have you seen Jeremy?” Jean asks. They're in the locker room getting dressed post-shower and post-win. Jean has PT in the morning, but after that it's spring break and the bliss of having absolutely nothing to do. 

Well. He is hoping for a little more than nothing.

“No,” Theo says. “He passed through a few minutes ago. I think he was going to the trophy room.”

Jean pulls a t-shirt on—his actual going-out clothes are in his room, waiting for him to return and change into them before the Trojans take a big team trip out to some L.A. club—and takes the stairs up to the trophy room level two at a time.

Honestly, he is unsurprised to find Jeremy standing in front of the big display case. There are Kayleigh Day Awards everywhere, but more importantly, dead center, a memorial to last year's championship win. There is a team photo next to the trophy, a copy of the Daily Trojan with a story of the win laid out on the shelf. All of it is behind glass, like real history instead of something Jean can remember like it was yesterday. 

Jeremy has his fingers pressed to the glass. 

Jean says, “Miss it?”

“Like crazy.” He meets Jean's eyes in his reflection on the glass. “You gonna get another one this year?”

“Maybe.”

Jeremy turns away from the trophy case and meets Jean's actual eyes. Jean can feel the thundering of his own heart, overwhelming, like it might actually burst. “You just made semifinals. Aren't you happy?”

“A bit,” Jean admits.

“You don't care at all, do you?”

“I care. Inasmuch as Laila cares.”

“You didn't care last year, either.”

“Last year I cared because you cared, and because I do not think being on a losing team would have been great for me, contract-wise.”

Jeremy looks away. “Thank you. For caring. Or—at least trying. I feel like—I don't know. It's so stupid to make one thing the most important thing in your life, but when you get it—I don't know. I was really happy.”

Jean remembers the end of that semester, Jeremy riding those waves of happiness and his antidepressants through the spring. It was nice. It is the only time in his life that Jean can really remember feeling at peace, even if there was this terrible thing digging away at the bottom of his stomach.

Well.

It's now or never.

“I wanted to say,” Jeremy says, “don't worry about the draft. Seriously. You'll definitely be a first round pick, which means you'll definitely have a good salary, which means you'll be fine.”

“What if I am not?”

“You will be. You're the strongest person I've ever met. You'll make the best of it even if you end up somewhere awful.”

Jean stares back at Jeremy and abruptly wants to leave the room. Something inside him twists so hard he feels it, real physical pain. He hates the way Jeremy looks at him. Like he expects the world. The strongest person Jeremy has ever met? Who does he think he is?

“I didn't mean that I wouldn't be fine,” Jean says. “I meant that I will not be a first round pick.”

“How do you know already?”

“I am not going to be in the draft at all. I'm going to Miami.”

Jeremy's mouth opens, closes, opens again. Closes.

“I am moving right after commencement,” Jean says. “I'm driving cross country.”

He doesn't ask what he wants to ask, which is whether Jeremy would want to come along on the drive. Jeremy has worked up to a couple hours in a car with Jean, but multiple days seems like a stretch. Especially because Jeremy is dead silent right now, like he's—upset. Disappointed. He has no right to be. He didn't ask Jean's opinion before signing with Boston. He has never had to beg someone to stop, knowing they wouldn't.

“The team is helping me find a place by the beach,” Jean continues. “It is very discounted. I told them I want to save as much money as possible.”

“You seem like you've really thought this through.”

“I have. With my agent and a financial advisor.”

“Not with me, though,” Jeremy says. “You didn't say a word.”

“I told you they had approached me, and I took your opinion into account when deciding whether or not to go.”

“And then you decided,” Jeremy says. “And it doesn't sound like it was just five minutes ago.”

No. He can't really be upset about this. 

“You never said a word,” Jean says. “About Boston. Or about Houston. Or about—anything—”

“Those were impulse decisions, they weren't—pre-meditated, I didn't—”

“You get to make impulse decisions,” Jean says. “You get to gamble with your future. I do not. I have to make the sensible choice every time. And I consulted you and took your advice into account, but you just jumped right in like you always do—”

“That is not fair.”

“Maybe you're right,” Jean says. “It was not impulsive. You told your agent you were interested in Boston. You asked him to put his feelers out. You thought it out. You just did not think it was important to ask my opinion.”

Jeremy looks torn between bewildered and genuinely pissed. “That's _not_ fair.”

“The whole time you were telling me not to go to Miami you were negotiating with Boston, and you expect me to go along blindly when you don't even tell me you're considering a move?” It feels too honest; Jean doesn't even realize he's hurt until he says it. “But it's fine. You get to make your own calls about your own future. And I do about mine. You do not have to consider how your choices will impact me.”

“Of course I consider you,” Jeremy says. “But we aren't together, we're not—”

It's strange to think of pain as something tangible, of feelings as something that can crack. “Exactly. Which is why I get to make the choices I want.”

“I'm just looking out for you,” Jeremy says. He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them he says, “Boston traded for a first round pick. We were going to—” He turns back to the big glass trophy case with only one important trophy in it. “The Minutemen are missing a backliner.”

If Jeremy had said that a few weeks ago—before signing his own contract, maybe—it would've made Jean's heart soar. Instead it just sits in his stomach, heavy. “I don't need you to look out for me, Jeremy. I don't need a—a body guard. Or an agent.”

“God,” Jeremy says. “Jesus. Is this why—I thought—you've been so weird for _months_ , is it because you were hiding this from me? I mean, how long have you known?”

“I have told you before that my future does not belong to me. I cannot just decide to do whatever I want based on my moods or—or whoever asks me first.”

“That is not what I did.”

“It doesn't matter.” Just once, Jean wants the entire rest of the world to trust him with his own fucking life. It's not like everyone else's choices have gotten him very far. If Kevin had not pawned him off on Jeremy, they wouldn't be having this argument in the first place. “I have never had a choice.”

“You do have a choice,” Jeremy argues. “You could've taken a chance in the draft, negotiated a good salary—first round picks are always—”

“And ended up doing exactly what you want me to do?”

Jeremy goes completely rigid. It was a cheap shot, but those always work on Jeremy. “That isn't—I wasn't even—”

“You just said you were planning to choose me in the draft,” Jean says. He doesn't think he has ever hated participating in a conversation more. “You did not say anything to me until now. At what point did you plan on taking my feelings into account?”

“I just feel like—I mean, I have some experience with big teams, and I think you'd be happier somewhere you could play regularly.”

“Do you?”

“Jean, that team _ruined_ exy for me. It was the one thing. And they made me jittery and anxious around _exy_. Which I love. It is the one thing that doesn't scare the shit out of me, and they ruined that.”

“The one thing?” Jean asks, because right, this is what he was supposed to talk to Jeremy about tonight. “Everything else terrifies you?”

Jeremy stares back.

Jean gives up. “We are not the same. I need you to stop projecting your experiences onto me just because you think I need saving.”

Another cheap shot; Jeremy takes a step back. “I'm not—I just want to make sure you're doing what's best for your future.”

“I think I would know what is best for myself better than you would.”

“I guess if you think this is best.”

Jean thought this conversation would take so much less time. He expected some mild irritation on Jeremy's part, an eyeroll at worst. But Jeremy still doesn't get it. He probably never will. It was stupid of Jean, probably, to think he might. Exy is Jean's life, literally, because his ability to play exy is the only thing keeping him alive. Jean doesn't know what will even happen to him after he retires. Who will argue on his behalf then? Kevin, who went to Riko's funeral like a good little number two? Neil Josten, who is responsible for all of this and yet barely cares enough to greet Jean when they end up in the same room?

Jean pictures Jeremy trying to sunshine Ichirou Moriyama into letting Jean live past the terms of their deal. It is almost funny, except that no Moriyama has a sense of humor that doesn't involve someone being hurt.

It isn't even just that the Moriyamas would want him to go to the highest paying team. Jean has no interest in building Boston up from scratch. He is going to be a starting backliner for the United States Court, and that means playing for the best team that will take him and fighting his way into the starting line. Jeremy is already America's sweetheart. Jean still needs to win them over. He isn't going to do that in Boston. He doesn't _want_ to go to Boston. He doesn't want to play for a mediocre team in the snow while standing behind Jeremy Knox who doesn't even care about Jean's thoughts when it comes to major life decisions.

“It is best,” Jean says. He doesn't even know why he is so angry. He thought that by now they would be agreeing to go on a road trip together or possibly making out. He thought Jeremy might even be a little drunk, but this isn't Jeremy drunk, slick and sleazy, loose with his hands and fundamentally incapable of keeping his mouth shut. This is Jeremy defensive and pissed, aimed at Jean for the very first time. “I'm going to bed.”

“We're all getting dinner,” Jeremy says, staring at the floor. “You can't just—not come.”

“Watch me.”

“No—Jean, come on, you have to, I'm not even on this team—”

“You need to stop telling me what to do,” Jean snaps. Something claws at him; underneath all that rage, sharp fear. “Just because I am honest with you, doesn't mean you get a say.”

Jeremy takes another step back, closes his eyes, takes a breath. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to like—I'm sorry. You're right. I am trying to—”

Jean already regrets snapping at him. “I think I just want to be alone right now.”

“Maybe you could meet us at the club,” Jeremy says. “I can text you when we're leaving dinner. If you—if you want. If you feel like it.”

There it is. Driftwood, a life raft. He is trying to make up for it. Jean forces himself to nod. “Sure. Text me.”

“Jean.”

“Yes, Jeremy.”

“I just don't want you to make a huge mistake.”

Jean looks up at the ceiling. Even as a child, he was never prone to tantrums. He doesn't know why he feels on the cusp of one right now. “Stop.”

“You know I just love you and—want the best for you.”

Maybe Jean shouldn't have let Kevin put him on a plane to L.A. Maybe he should have kicked and screamed and begged to stay in Palmetto. “Stop saying that.”

“To be clear, I'm not, like, ordering you to do anything. I'm trying to give you advice. Because I love you and I want you to be happy.”

“You are not the first person who has tried to make decisions about my life for me. It isn't better just because you smile while you do it.”

“You can't leverage your trauma against me every time we argue. That's not fair.”

“What about your life has made you think that what's fair matters?”

“You didn't fucking say anything,” Jeremy says. “What do you want? Congratulations?”

“I feel like I did. I feel like we talked about this and I was very transparent.”

“ _You_?” Jeremy says, all derision, loud enough to startle Jean. “You're about as transparent as a brick fucking wall.”

“Don't yell at me.”

“Right. Sorry. I shouldn't have yelled. But—” Jeremy sighs. “I'm not doing this. Do whatever you want. I'm going.”

He slams the door to the stairs behind him. Jean looks anywhere but after Jeremy, and his eyes land on the trophy case. Jeremy's fingerprints are still there.

Jean thinks if he still had his racquet on him he would smash the glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u thought part 293084
> 
> actually honestly you didnt thought bc half the comments were like “bitch I do not trust you” lmao 
> 
> come say hi on [tumblr](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com). please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	26. minutemen

****

**part iii: grace**

Their backline has to reorganize for the fourth time so far in the second half. Jeremy can't fall back; Boston need another goal to cement their victory, and they aren't going to get it if he is trying to do the backline's job for it.

It has been a frustrating game. Jeremy started, scored goals in the thirteenth and seventeenth minutes, and then was subbed off. Natasha scored toward the end of the first half, putting Boston three goals up at halftime, a miracle considering their opposition made it to the playoff semifinals last season. But after halftime, Atlanta did what they always do, dismantling Boston's backline and putting four goals past Brenner in the first ten minutes of the half. Pat came on to bolster the backline, and with his help, Rawan scored to put Boston back on even footing with Atlanta. Then Coach Friedel waved Jeremy back onto the court in place of Rawan.

It's been an uphill climb ever since. Boston can barely get the ball, and when they do they lose it quickly. Most of the team has dropped back to defend; only Jeremy and Natasha are anywhere near center court, trying to keep themselves onside. 

“Do your friggin job!” Pat shouts at Jeremy when he catches Jeremy watching the ball.

“Then you do yours!” Jeremy shoots back, banging his stick against the floor.

Maybe Pat takes it to heart, or maybe he is just good at what he does, because three minutes later the opening finally comes. Pat makes a pass that rebounds off the wall and lands neatly in Jeremy's racquet. He is well-positioned to shoot from here, but Atlanta's goalie is broad and fast, and this feels like too obvious a spot. Instead, Jeremy takes three steps sideways, narrowly dodging a racquet check and colliding shoulder-first with an Atlanta backliner. He shoots immediately after impact, before the goalie can even react to the shift in Jeremy's stance. When the wall lights up red, Jeremy raises his racquet in triumph. Pat jogs across the court to throw himself over Jeremy's back. Natasha clacks sticks with Jeremy. Palmer hoots his name from behind him. Jeremy tries not to look too happy.

*

“Jeremy! Jeremy Knox!”

Jeremy turns to face the reporters shouting his name as he makes his way to the locker rooms. He stops at some New England news channel's mic and smiles. 

“Your first game for the Minutemen, and you scored a hat trick!” the reporter says. “Would you say the comeback is on?”

“I scored in Houston, too,” Jeremy says. He talked about this with his agent. Don't burn bridges, Garrett said. Don't trash your old team. “They didn't want my rookie goals, so I'm spreading the wealth.”

“So you wouldn't call this a comeback?”

“A comeback happens when you were playing poorly and now you're playing well.” Fuck it. It's not the first bridge he's burned, and he is pretty sure he won't regret this one. “Call it what it is. A phoenix rising from the ashes.”

*

TD Garden is a brutalist monolith a fifteen minute from the best cannoli—Jeremy is told—this side of the Atlantic Ocean. It is fucking huge. Courtside tickets cost a fortune even though Boston's exy team is nowhere near the city's most successful sport. Jeremy doesn't get recognized frequently, but every now and then he'll bike past someone with the Minutemen's navy and white logo on their car and get honked at. It isn't complete anonymity, but it's easy enough to be invisible when he isn't in exy gear.

The Minutemen practice in a nondescript building in Allston. Basement is offices, next floor is a practice court, and then all the upper floors house a very expensive gym. Jeremy rides his bike most mornings, but, he's told, this will become impossible once the first snow hits.

“So will the T, but so will driving, so you're really not missing much,” Pat, a local who went to BU and was immediately drafted his fifth year, tells Jeremy. “No one cleans the friggin snow. You have a bike path in October, then in November it's a snow bank. At least on the T you're not gonna get hit by a friggin eighteen wheeler.”

But for now Jeremy enjoys his bike rides, enjoys pushing through thick humid summer air to get to work, enjoys the thunderstorms and mosquitos and lush green trees. He has never lived anywhere with trees like this. He thinks if trees could talk, these would have insane stories, because that's the other thing about Boston that gets to you, the history of it all. Jeremy's family wasn't American, and he doesn't have the same rosy romantic connection with American history Pat does, but still. There is something about walking the same streets as the people who made the country that makes him smile to himself. 

Having lived in two sprawling cities and the desert, Jeremy should find this place suffocating. He had trouble sleeping when he first moved here. People are always so close together—commuters on the subway, or flooding the bike lane—and it's always loud. It was loud in L.A., too, but Boston is loud in an old school gangster move kind of way. There are people with Boston accents shouting outside at all hours of the night, and if they don't have a Boston accent they'll be speaking another language, Cantonese or Portuguese or French. Cop cars, fire trucks, ambulances. He imagines snow plows in the winter. Jeremy has never done winter properly, but he imagines it, himself in those ugly duck boots everyone wears and a long puffy coat.

He loves it here. It's no L.A., of course, and it's his first time really away from the desert, but he loves it. He loves his apartment and its rooftop dog park, he loves that everyone in the building has a dog, loves that the doorman offers to take Borgo for walks. He loves that he can go out and walk for three minutes and reach a CVS. No one thinks it's weird that he doesn't drive.

Today, he is taking his bike to his therapist's office, meeting some Nike people for lunch, picking up groceries, taking Borgo to the park, stopping at the gym in Allston to review last night's game, and meeting some teammates for drinks. 

It’s strange to have plans again. In Houston, Jeremy alternated between killing off his excess exy energy by swimming, learning how to cook, and drinking wine; and lying on his bed, wrung out, no capacity to even care about the mess he got himself into. 

He and his therapist have spent the last few months trying to undo that damage. It is not easy. She has him taking short cab rides—very short, but cab rides nonetheless—once a week. Supposedly the only way to get over his car thing is by riding in cars with strangers. Jeremy would question her process if she didn’t have an army of Yelp reviewers proclaiming that she helped people through all kinds of crazy life situations. 

“I think you’re ready to come off the meds,” she tells him toward the end of their meeting. “What do you think?”

Jeremy thinks that he hasn’t felt like a wrung out towel in months. Part of that—maybe most of that—was the meds.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think you’re right.”

“Was there anything else you wanted to talk about? Everything's good, life-wise?”

“Mostly everything, yeah,” Jeremy says. “I think I'm doing well.”

“You seem like you are,” his therapist says. “Let's get you off the meds, and then think about cutting our appointments down to every couple of weeks. How do you feel about that?”

Jeremy grins. “Great. Perfect.”

*

For lunch, Jeremy’s agent, a friend of Rheman’s named Garrett, meets him in front of some bougie restaurant. Jeremy is still wearing the clothes he went to therapy in, head-to-toe Nike since he keeps getting sent packages of their stuff. His entire wardrobe has become activewear. He can't really complain, but he definitely isn't looking forward to having to wear full-length pants in the winter.

“How was the move?” Jeremy asks. “You like New York?”

“Feels weird to be representing more east coast people than west coast, I'll tell you that,” Garrett says. “But I got real sick of driving around L.A., and this way I get to see your pretty face in person whenever you fuck something up.” 

Jeremy laughs. “I don't do that.”

“Wanna bet? A phoenix from the ashes? What was that?” 

“I'm just trying to take control of my image,” Jeremy says. “You told me to.”

“You know that's not what I meant. Everyone's going to think you're a huge dick.”

Jeremy shrugs. “Maybe I am.”

“Yeah, maybe you are.” Garrett gestures to Jeremy's clothes. “Nike's already here. You couldn’t put on a shirt with buttons?”

“This is a Nike t-shirt,” Jeremy protests, but Garrett rolls his eyes and hands Jeremy a set of keys. 

“My car is around the corner. There’s a garment bag in the back. Don’t look at me like that, you don’t have to drive the fucking thing and the windows are tinted.”

“But won’t they like that I’m wearing their product?”

“They’ll like that you respected them by dressing nicely,” Garrett says. “You promised to trust me, Jeremy.”

Jeremy lifts his hands in surrender. “Which car is yours?”

“The nicest one. Meet us inside. I’ll tell them you were late helping orphans or something.”

“You know, as an orphan—“

“Oh, I forgot.” For a second Jeremy thinks Garrett might apologize, but instead he says, “Perfect. It won’t be a lie. Go.”

Jeremy does as he’s told. Garrett's car is big enough that he can change pretty easily inside it. The suit is well-tailored and much nicer than it probably has any right to be. It obviously wasn’t made for Garrett. 

There is a tie included in the garment bag, but Jeremy ditches it. He ditches the belt, too. He has to be a little bit rebellious, after all, keep Garrett on his toes. Otherwise he isn’t worth the chunk of Jeremy’s salary that goes straight into his bank account. 

Or so Jeremy tells himself, balling his shorts and t-shirt up and shoving them inside the garment bag with the belt and tie. He snaps a picture—Garrett says he should be more active on social media, and the farce of this feels like it’d make a good post—and checks his reflection in the rear view mirror. 

Okay. He looks good. A little sweaty, but it’s hot and he biked here, so that probably can’t be helped. His hair is a disaster and he definitely needs to shave, but longer hair can be a blank canvas for Nike. They can cut it however they want. 

He drops into his chair at the restaurant around six minutes after Garrett sent him away to change. The Nike guys are dressed really nicely; Garrett definitely wasn’t joking. 

Jeremy smiles. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “I was helping an orphan.”

*

It’s decided that Jeremy will be in various sports-themed campaigns over the course of the next year. The goal is for him to be on the US Olympic exy team next summer, which, he’s told, is very likely. He missed call ups this past summer, but Kevin and Garrett both think he’ll end up on US Court by the end of the year if he avoids injury, and Nike seem to agree. If all goes to plan, Jeremy will be featured in Nike’s Olympics campaign as—that word again—the comeback kid. Maybe he can convince them to change the tag line to don’t call it a comeback.

That’s what he’s thinking when he gets back to his apartment, groceries in hand. 

Borgo loves the dog park near Jeremy’s apartment so much that it honestly makes Jeremy feel guilty when they have to leave. Borgo is beyond spoiled—Jeremy has a walker stop by his apartment on days when he can’t come home at lunch, and Borgo likes her so much that Jeremy is already planning on her being Borgo’s babysitter when he has away games. 

But he feels guilty anyway. He’d get another dog if he had the time for one right now, and he’s considering getting a cat for Borgo to hang out with, but for now it’s just the two of them.

It’s not lonely. Not really. Jeremy’s teammates are great, from the new ones—Pat and Natasha and Brenner and Chioma—to Palmer, the backliner Boston ended up trading for, formerly of Stanford University. Jeremy hooks up with people when he feels like it, uses Grindr and torso pics to stay mostly anonymous. He doesn’t really date. He tells himself it’s that he doesn’t have time, but the truth is that he can’t think of anyone who has held his attention for long enough to date properly. 

He’s too busy anyway. He’s learning how to sit in cars! He does press and stuff with sponsors all the time. He already has trips planned for his off weeks in December—he’ll be seeing Alvarez’s family in LA at least, plus hopefully a trip to South America during the January break. 

He calls Laila, more because he is bored and she has only a couple of hours before her first game for New York starts. 

“It’s so insane,” she says. “Like, this is so insane. I don’t even know how to feel.”

“Nervous?” Jeremy suggests. “Confident?” 

He doubts either emotion is necessary—there are two goalies ahead of her on New York’s roster, and most teams only do a single goalie switch at halftime—but he knows better than to be a dick about someone else’s excitement. Now. 

“Yeah, I don’t know, both, I guess? How did you feel before your first game at Houston?”

“I was really confident, actually,” Jeremy says. “Right up until they didn’t play me.”

Laila laughs. “Stop it. You’re going to manifest bad luck for me.”

“You don’t believe in that manifestation BS.”

“Why not?” Laila says. “I’m happy. I feel like I manifested that. I mean, maybe not, sure, it’s kind of farfetched, but maybe I did, right?”

“Happy Laila is so weird.”

“No need to be stressed when you’re third in line for the starting spot,” she says cheerfully. “I watched your game yesterday, by the way. I mean, I had it on while I played dress up games on my phone, but I saw enough to notice that you started and scored a hat trick.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy says. He’s still smiling. “Yeah, I did.”

“So we’re happy in Boston?”

“We’re very happy in Boston.”

“Good,” she says. “Let’s see if you still feel that way in October when you have to score on me.”

“Joke’s on you, sis, I’m a starter.”

Laila laughs.

*

Jeremy's weekly extremely brief Uber rides have become a subject of light teasing from his teammates. This week, he has an alibi: Palmer isn't supposed to be on his feet, and Jeremy decides to accompany him on the trip from the gym to the sports doctor half a mile away.

“You know, he would've just met me at the gym,” Palmer says, amused. He has to shout it over the Uber driver's music, which is loud enough to give Jeremy a headache, but Palmer has been briefed on Jeremy's need for constant, distracting conversation during car rides.

“It's four dollars and eight minutes in moderate to heavy traffic,” Jeremy says. “Bear with me.”

“Isn't it weird that we joked about playing for the Lightyears together, and then here we are two years later, literally the entire way across the country?”

“You were the one who didn't trust Houston.”

“I still want to know what kind of scam you pulled to get me here,” Palmer says. “I don't think—”

Jeremy holds up a hand. “Wait, shut up for a second.”

“What's—”

“Shut up.”

The song playing over the radio is familiar to Jeremy for some reason. He can't put a finger on it. 

The car goes over a speed bump too quickly, and Jeremy lets out a sharp gasp of breath.

“I thought you needed to be talked through these,” Palmer says.

“I do,” Jeremy says. “Thanks. Sorry. I just thought—I thought I heard something. I don't know. It was weird.”

“Well, you're a weirdo,” Palmer says. “Anyway. What kind of—”

The GPS chirps that they've arrived at their destination. Jeremy gets out of the car first to pass Palmer his crutches, and then he jogs the five minutes back to the gym.

*

Jeremy is putting decorations up in his apartment with some random music channel on in the background—his teammates were here last weekend and said it looked like a jail cell, and honestly, they were right—when he hears the song again.

It feels obvious this time. He should have gotten it the first time, but of course it's been months since they even texted.

The song reminds him of Jean.

Jeremy looks the exy schedule up. The Typhoons have their first game of the season tonight. The Minutemen have the night off, and Jeremy is supposed to be meeting his teammates for a drink at some upscale bar a fifteen minute bike ride from his apartment.

He switches the TV to ESPN-E. The Typhoons are lining up for their game against Detroit, and Jean is parked on the bench with his helmet in his lap.

Jeremy texts the groupchat saying that he won't be able to make it and drops onto his couch. It's been a while since he watched a full game of exy that wasn't relevant to his own team. Around six months, actually. Since the last time he was in L.A.

He stands back up. Maybe this is a bad idea. It feels really like a bad idea.

But why? It's exy. He's probably watched a thousand exy games in his life. He just watched last night's Minutemen game on a giant TV at the gym. Coach Keough rewinded their mistakes a whole bunch of times, and that was more frustrating than this should be. It's just a game.

He goes to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of wine. He downs it in a couple of gulps and then refills his glass and takes the bottle back to the living room with him.

It's just an exy game. 

Twenty minutes in, Miami are two goals up and Detroit already look exhausted. Miami sub off their starting backliner and sub Jean in. He steps onto the court to raucous applause: if Miami made any mistakes at the beginning of the game, they all came from the righthand side. Jean slots right in and stabilizes the defense, creates gaps in the Detroit backline, assists goals. 

Miami are so good, especially with Jean on their team. Their style of play relies on perfect passes and narrowly avoiding checks to push past an opponent's backline when on the attack and form a barricade when on the defense. Jean, being good at his defensive duties and exceptional in the attack, fits right in.

The Typhoons' starting backliner, a commentator says, is aging. Jeremy probably should have looked that up before yelling at Jean about going there. Other than that backliner, Miami have one of the youngest teams in the country. Jeremy should have looked that up, too.

Jean threads an impossible pass through a blockade of Detroit players to Oliver Nguyen, himself a former Trojan. Oliver doesn't even have to move forward to score; he just re-angles his racquet and shoots. 

Red. Oliver clacks his racquet against Jean's, then throws an arm around Jean's shoulders. Jeremy wonders if Jean is smiling under that helmet. He refills his glass of wine and wonders what he must look like—getting drunk off much too fancy red wine in an empty apartment watching an exy game, surrounded by Command hooks and nails. 

Play restarts. Jean does one of his trademark runs up the righthand side, and then takes an illegal racquet to the helmet. The Typhoons descend upon the player who checked Jean, but before it turns into a real brawl, the ref blows his whistle. The overly aggressive player gets shown a red card, and Jean tears his helmet off.

Jean has an innate sort of elegance to him. Maybe it's in the way he carries himself, the slope of his back, his long fingers; or maybe it's the haughty expression he perfected either as a French exy prodigy or as part of that red and black unit of steamrollers at Edgar Allan. You'd expect him to play piano or swim professionally or something, not play one of the most brutal sports in the world.

Which is why when he glares up at the camera and blood spills from his nose onto his mouth, Jeremy has to catch his breath. Red against the white of his teeth, frustration at the injury, a hand waving at the referee, lips moving around familiar words. He is probably making an argument about staying on the court even though his nose might be broken. Jeremy almost wants to roll his eyes.

The referee sends him off the court. The Typhoons sub on another backliner. Jean all but storms off.

Jeremy looks over at his phone. It would be so easy to send a text right now.

He refills his wine glass and keeps watching. 

Jean gets back on the court after halftime, this time sporting a white bandage over his nose. He tugs his helmet down over it and keeps playing.

Jeremy is going to have the worst headache in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com)! please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	27. miami

It is remarkable what the human body can get used to. 

Years of abuse. Ritual torture. A minute plus under water. Achy withdrawal, the bruises left from missing someone. The incredible humidity of Miami, Florida in September.

Jean has been told that swimming alone in the ocean at night during hurricane season is a bad idea, a risk he shouldn't take, not with his career on the line.

It's an allowance he gives himself anyway. Swimming pools are one thing; the wrong side of the Atlantic, bed-cozy in the late summer, is another entirely.

He misses Jeremy. He thinks about him all the time. He can't avoid it. He turns on the TV, and there he is, Captain Sunshine melting the snow in Boston. It isn't even snowing yet. It's September. Besides, they have him all wrong—if Jeremy is the sun, he isn't the sun at high noon. He is the burning glow of dawn, pinks and purples and oranges, warm after a long cold night.

And Jean misses him. How the hell did this happen?

He dunks his head under the water. The cut on his nose stings. He doesn't even care; he has rubbing alcohol on his sink right next to his razor and toothbrush.

He does, absurdly, despite everything, love it here. He loves Miami clubs, Miami beaches, Miami heat, Miami sun. It's the Mediterranean if the Mediterranean were louder, Marseille if everyone spoke Spanish. It gets so humid that sometimes the air feels solid, literally oppressive, desperate to leak some of its moisture, and Jean likes that too.

His teammates are chronically friendly; one of them used to be captain of the Trojans, which should make Jean biased against him, but instead it just makes it easier to be friends. It's so different from how he imagined his professional career to be. Yes, exy makes up most of his life—but there is free time, too, time to swim and enjoy the beach and live his life. It's strange. He never expected to enjoy living his life.

*

The Typhoons are playing Philadelphia, and Jean gets to start for the first time this season. The strangest thing is that he is also enjoying _exy_. The stakes aren't what they used to be—yes, he has to play well to win and maintain his contract, and yes, Miami expect the best—but he is neither playing for a team that punishes failure nor for one desperate to win.

It's a good place for a young, talented backliner to get his start. Jeremy was wrong about that. He is, Jean has noticed, wrong about a lot of things.

Jean drives himself into Philly's striker, Marquez, and forces Marquez against the wall. Marquez struggles for a moment, trying to keep hold of the ball, but Jean pushes harder, knocks his racquet against Marquez's. 

The ball bounces out of Marquez's racquet and rolls away. Marquez shoves past Jean, and Jean makes to follow, but then his racquet falls out of his hand.

Something is wrong. The shoulder he just checked Marquez with isn't right. It hurts. Fuck. It really hurts. 

“You good?” Oliver shouts, jogging past. 

Jean nods, bending to pick his racquet up with his other hand. He tries to roll his shoulder—maybe it's just a cramp—and the searing pain comes back with a vengeance.

Play goes on around him. Fuck. He needs to get back into the game. He closes his left hand around the racquet, but then—thankfully—Oliver calls a time out. 

Jean has had a hundred injuries in the years since he moved to the States. He has played through them before. He doesn't know why he can't now. Maybe he has gotten soft.

“What happened?” Oliver asks.

“My shoulder,” Jean says. “I think it is dislocated.”

“Oh,” Oliver says. “Fuck.” He signals for a change. “Do you need a hand getting off the court?”

“No, it's fine, I can manage.”

“Dislocated shoulder,” Oliver says. “That's a month out.” He watches Jean for a moment, and then he says, “Okay. Go see Becca. You're going to be fine, okay?”

Jean doesn't realize he is being walked off until he notices Oliver's hand on his back, guiding him toward the exit.

*

He is prescribed a week in a sling and three weeks off the court and out of the gym. He needs to be extra careful to avoid risk of recurrence. He is told this is lucky; the injury was only minor. This only a few weeks after he was taken off the court with blood streaming out of his nose. He doesn't know how he spent so long playing while injured and then, as soon as it was no longer necessary to play through injury, became an injury-prone player.

The doctor leaves after delivering this news, and Jean pinches the bridge of his nose. He hates hospitals, hates getting x-rays, and hates doctors. 

His phone vibrates. He grabs it with his left hand, assuming it will be Oliver or another Typhoon checking in on him.

It isn't. It's a text from Jeremy.

That is another strange thing. Jean hasn't seen Jeremy's name on his phone screen in four months. 

He opens the text.

_how's the shoulder?_

He hits the power button on his phone. The last text before this one was just Jeremy attempting a greeting, _hey..._ , in May. Right before commencement; presumably Jeremy wanted to let Jean know he'd be there. Jean planned an apology, or at least planned to accept an apology, but it didn't end up happening. He doesn't know why. He didn't even see Jeremy the day of, not at brunch with Laila and Alvarez's families or at dinner with Theo's parents. 

His plans never really work out.

His phone rings—his agent Nadia calling to check in about the injury. He answers her and puts Jeremy out of his head.

*

He can't help himself. He just can't. He replies to Jeremy in the middle of the fucking night, and remembers too late that they're on the same coast now so he can't even blame the time difference.

It's nothing big. Just a _fine – 3 wks out_.

But Jeremy responds with a smiley face emoji almost immediately, and Jean wishes—

It doesn't matter. He puts his phone away and goes to sleep.

*

Three weeks without exy is a reprieve. Three weeks without swimming is torture.

A week in, he gets the okay to go for jogs. He hates jogging, but it is a necessity for this sport, especially considering it is just about the only exercise he can do. 

It's better than nothing. He isn't sitting inside watching an endless stream of Netflix and scrolling through dating apps on his phone, at least.

*

The second week, Rosaline texts him out of nowhere.

_hey im in your hood. buy me a drink w those pro athlete dollars?_

Jean wavers on texting her back. He doesn't want to reignite their non-relationship, but he also feels kind of bad about being sort of rude when they ended it. 

“Not bad enough to buy me dinner, though, huh?” Rosaline asks when he tells her this. 

She is sitting next to him at the bar at some upscale wine place, swishing her cabernet and peering at Jean over her glasses. She always wore contacts in school. He wonders what changed.

Jean smiles. “Apparently not.”

“Why did you do it that way? Avoiding me? I know we weren't serious, but like—I did think you liked me as, like, a person.”

Jean plays with his cocktail napkin. “I do like you. Like, as a person.” 

“So ...”

“I am not very good at difficult conversations,” he says, which is honest, and then, “I did want to talk to you. I just couldn't find the right time.”

“What about every time we talked?” Rosaline says. “Even a text would've been nice.”

“You're right.”

“You know, at first, I thought you were, like—” She stops, laughs a little. “I mean, I thought you were upset that I didn't want to be serious. I thought you, like, low key resented me for that. But when you did your gradual ghosting—”

“It was not a ghosting!”

“—I guess I figured you must not have liked me after all.”

“That is not true.”

“I mean, I know that _now_.” Rosaline makes eye contact with the bartender. “You're not saying no to dinner, right?”

“Are you using me for my pro athlete dollars?”

Rosaline laughs. “Yes. How many lobsters can I order before I empty your bank account?”

“I do not think they serve lobster here.”

“You should get one if they do,” Rosaline suggests. “I want to see you try to eat it in that sling.”

“Hilarious.”

“How serious is it?”

“Not very,” Jean says. “Which is why I can afford your dinner.”

Rosaline laughs again. Jean still really likes her laugh.

“Where are you staying?” he asks.

“Company's paying for a hotel. I mean, it's not a beachfront property, but it's a nice hotel. I mean, it has a bed and a TV.”

He opens his mouth to ask her to come to his place, but instead he says, “It sounds nice.” 

Rosaline probably catches it. She doesn't bring it up.

*

The third week, he gets back to practice. The fourth week, he gets subbed on in the second half for ten minutes toward the end. The shoulder is not quite right, but he makes the best of it anyway.

He expected the relief. That he can still play means he gets to stay alive. He didn't expect the little spark of joy. From _exy_. This is absurd. This sport is not fun; he plays it because he has to.

And yet—there was a time, when he was a child and played for the youth league in Marseille, when he enjoyed exy. He played because he preferred it to soccer, because in the late nineties in France everyone wanted to be the next Zidane; and of course his parents encouraged him to join the exy team. He always liked the sting of exy, even when checks were just touches and grabs in his youth league. 

He favors his left side instead of his right tonight, checks with his chest and his other arm, tries to contribute more to the attack instead of just defending, pushes forward to unlock Cleveland's backline. 

Jean drops onto the bench in the locker room after, dragging his jersey and armor off to assess his shoulder situation. It feels okay. A little looser than normal, but not significantly worse than before the game.

In his lap, his phone vibrates. Jeremy's name pops up.

_good game. nice bounce back._

“How's the shoulder?” Oliver asks. “You need anything before we head out?”

“I'm fine,” Jean says.

“Did the tape help?”

Jean reaches back to peel some of the KT tape off his shoulder. “I have no idea.”

“You should try a different brand,” Oliver says. “Sometimes it takes some experimenting.” Oliver squints at Jean, and Jean is reminded of Jeremy's scrutinizing looks. Jesus, Jeremy really did learn all his tricks from Oliver. Laila makes this face, too. “You're sure the shoulder is good?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe pick up some new tape tomorrow.”

Jean can't see how the brand would make a difference, but he nods. 

“Hey. Jean. Look at me for a second.”

Jean looks. Oliver's face shows a surprising amount of concern.

“You good?” 

Jean squeezes his phone in his hand. “Yes.” That's another Trojan affectation, that question, _you good?_

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Oliver says. “You might be having a late night, though. Becca wants you to see her, and she might take you to get x-rayed and stuff. You want me to hang back and wait for you?”

“No,” Jean says. He and the Typhoons' medic have spent a lot of time together in the last few weeks. “She can give me a ride.”

“If you get out in the next two hours, come to my place. Everyone's having drinks. You're absolutely sure you don't want me to come or anything?”

“Oliver, I have had other injuries.”

Oliver laughs. “Okay, rookie, we get it, you're a big boy. Text me an update when you have one.”

*

Jean finally gets home a few hours later.

He likes his house, even if it does feel quiet sometimes. He has stopped actively looking for a relationship, but having this house be a little less empty would definitely be a plus. Maybe he should get a dog.

He pushes open the porch doors to let a little of the humidity in and stares down at his phone. He types out a long text, then erases it and types a shorter one, then erases that one too.

This should not be this difficult. They are going to play each other in a few weeks, and it's not like Jean can just ignore Jeremy when they are in the same space. Jeremy is the easiest person to talk to on the planet. The easiest. 

He thinks, wow. Fuck this.

He presses the little green phone button next to Jeremy's name.

Jeremy answers on the first ring. “Hello?”

“I have a question,” Jean says. He leans against the doorjamb in front of the porch. “Do you remember you said there was a particular brand of KT tape you preferred?”

“Oh,” Jeremy says. Too long of a pause, and then: “Yeah, it's this pink stuff, I'll send you a link. Actually, kind of a funny story—I took Borgo to CVS once to pick it up thinking I could, like, just take him in with me or whatever, but nope, not allowed, and then I fully got kicked out of the CVS and my agent yelled at me for like ten minutes.” 

“My agent thinks I should endorse Puma,” Jean says. “Apparently Puma is extremely popular in Senegal, and she wants me to be the African face of exy.”

Jeremy laughs. “So you're going to represent exy to just, like, all of Africa? Based on your parents having moved to France from there—what, like, thirty years ago?”

“Maybe longer. I have not been to Senegal since I was four years old. I barely know the capital.”

“Dakar,” Jeremy supplies helpfully.

“Thank you, but I was actually exaggerating. When was the last time you were in Mexico?”

“Summer before you joined the Trojans. Me and Alvarez saved our stipend and went and did tourist-y things and stayed with her family and stuff. It was really fun, actually, I think she has pictures somewhere of this cave we went diving in.”

“You went cave diving in Mexico? Since when are you adventurous?”

“I contain multitudes, Jean Moreau.”

“I know you do, Jeremy Knox.” 

The line is quiet for a moment, and then Jeremy says, “Hey, do you remember Palmer? That backliner who gave me a concussion a couple years ago?”

“Current starting right backliner for the Boston Minutemen? I remember him.”

“So it turns out he's low key a huge baseball fan, and we were at this, like, supremely bougie bar the other night, and a Red Sock walks in.”

“A single sock?”

“No, like, the Boston Red Sox—only one of them. The singular of sox is sock, right?”

“I would assume.”

“So this Sock walks in, and I'm not, like—I barely know the rules of baseball, right, like I know what I played in my neighborhood when I was six. I think the only baseball player I know of is A-Rod. But Palmer fully recognizes this guy and like, kind of freaks out? Which—I've met a lot of cool people in the last couple of years, and I'm not exactly the most chill person in the universe, but Palmer fully freaked out. Like, runs up to this guy, asks for an autograph, tells him how sad he is that he left the Cubs—and the Sock signs Palmer's receipt and then says fuck the Cubs! To Palmer's face! Can you imagine?”

Jean scrubs his thumb across his mouth to stop himself from smiling so widely. “Palmer questioned a professional athlete's choice to move to a different team than the one Palmer supports? Probably deserved it.”

On the other end, Jeremy lets out a loud breath. “Yeah, well. I didn't really think it was analogous. I just thought it was funny. Can you imagine meeting one of your heroes and accidentally insulting them? And they turn out to be kind of a dick?”

Jean steps past the threshold onto the porch. His house faces the beach, not the city. The ocean expands endlessly in front of him. “I really can't. How is Borgo?” 

“He's really good. He actually met a—there's this dog park near my apartment, and he met this girl dog, and now they're boyfriend and girlfriend dog. Her owner was concerned because Borgo is obviously huge compared to her tiny little poodle, but he's such a sweetheart, the owner and I actually ended up becoming friends just so our dogs could hang out. Like, she comes to my apartment and our dogs play together on my roof. It's extremely yuppie.”

“That is the definition of yuppie,” Jean says. “Is the dog's owner a marketing analyst or a craft beer brewer?”

“Worse. She works in tech.”

“Does her dog have an Instagram?”

“We were talking about making one for both of our dogs, actually. A dog couple Instagram. God, what am I becoming?”

“An extremely boring adult.”

Jeremy laughs again, and then he asks, “The tape's for the shoulder?”

“Yes.”

“It's not going to be a long term thing, is it?”

“Doctor says no as long as I am careful.”

“Oh,” Jeremy says. “Okay. Good.” 

For a moment, Jean thinks something else might be coming, but nothing does. He says, “Thanks for the recommendation. I am glad I called.”

“Me too,” Jeremy says. “I hate not talking.”

Jean traces the wrought iron railing. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com). please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!
> 
> the good news for u guys is that im tired of making you suffer & excited for you to finally get some kind of release. the bad news is jeremy and jean just spoke for the first time in six months lol


	28. typhoons

Boston aren't that good, but they're good enough for Jeremy's purposes, and he gets to work with the coach and the captain to help reform them. He is easily the best player on the team, but he isn't the guy who used to like being the best player on the team anymore. 

It's like Kevin said. A team that takes work means every player is more personally invested in its success. When they win, it feels legitimately good, not hollow like it did with the Lightyears. They're a small enough team under new ownership, which means the coach actually listens to all of them individually. Jeremy even helps with recruitment—it was his idea to trade for Palmer last summer. 

As vice-captain, he takes part in planning for games. It's nice; outside of actually playing exy, Jeremy has to spend a lot of time watching it, determining how to best play against their opposition. It's good training, Coach Friedel suggests, for if Jeremy wants to go into sports commentary or management after his career. It's probably too early to be thinking about that, but it feels smart to get the experience anyway. 

On the Tuesday before their biggest game so far this season, he gets out of a meeting with Pat and Coach Friedel the Tuesday and runs right into Palmer leaving physical therapy.

“What's the deal?” Jeremy asks. “You back in?”

“Yeah, looks like I'm playing against Miami this weekend,” Palmer says. “I wanted to talk to you about it, actually. Let's go get lunch.”

They go upstairs to get food and settle in an office to eat it. Jeremy tunes the TV to Miami's last game and puts it on mute; he's supposed to be taking notes on their go-to strategy.

“He's really good, huh?” Palmer says, looking up at the screen. “Not even just for a rookie. Like, as a player, he's really good.”

Jeremy doesn't have to ask who he is talking about. Jean scored a goal from center court last week. He is really good. Fast, a constant attacking threat, but rock solid at the back, too. He checks players, commits fouls when he needs to, stretches the rules almost to breaking point. But his play cleaned up at USC, and he's razor sharp now. Even on a court full of talented players, Jean manages to shine. 

“He really is,” Jeremy says.

“Aren't you supposed to be taking notes?” Palmer says.

“I don't need to take notes on Jean. I know his game better than I know my own.”

“You sure he didn't pick up any new tricks?”

“Maybe.”

Jean's off the ball movement is on point, too. It's not really surprising. Jean has exy in his blood. It's like he always says. Exy is his life. Jean understands the game better than most people who have ever played it. 

“No offense, but he would've killed it in Houston.”

“Yeah.” Jeremy forces himself to look away from the TV and Jean's goal celebration. “You're probably right.”

“That's what I wanted to ask you about,” Palmer says. “Do you know why he didn't go?”

“They don't take risks,” Jeremy says. “Remember Matt Boyd's track marks? That's why they sent him home after week one.”

“Huh.” Palmer writes something down and fast forwards through the replays of the goal. “That makes sense. I always wondered why he left when he was one of the better backliners there. What's the risk with Moreau, though? Just the hazing at Edgar Allan?”

Jeremy always forgets how much the general public knows about what went down at Edgar Allan in Jean's last few weeks there. Or during Jean's entire stay there. No one else saw him when he got to L.A., a shadow of a person, too thin, buried in an orange hoodie and covered in new stitches. 

It's not really any of Palmer's business. “I guess so.”

“If you know, you should share. We could use it against Miami, right? How easy is it to get under his skin?”

Tell him he's making a huge mistake and imply that you don't trust him to make choices about his own life. “You can't. The dude is impenetrable.” 

“There must be something.”

Jeremy shakes his head. “We'll have to outplay him.”

“So jokes about, like, having to drink people's backwash won't work?”

“What?”

“Hazing. Right? That was why he left the Ravens?”

“Stanford beat us,” Jeremy says. He hates this type of mind game in exy. You don't go there. It's not fair. And even if you don't care about fairness, you don't go there. Not with the people you love. “How did you do it?”

“Concussed the best player,” Palmer replies. “Should I concuss Moreau? It'd be like coming full circle, right?”

“No. We just have to play better than they do. There's no way around it.”

“Cool,” Palmer says. “Cool. I love that. You played with the guy, but you have no insider tips. What are you even good for, Knox?”

“I gave you the insider tip, Palmer. We need to be better than him.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Better than him.”

Jeremy remembers frantic practices leading up to the final against the Foxes, putting everything into dispossessing Jean, getting his body and the ball past him. 

“If I'm pissed off enough, yeah.”

“So you're saying we need to taunt you, not our opposition.” Palmer grins. “Cool. So our strategy is just to get you to hulk out, and then you'll beat Moreau for us?”

“There's this other cool strategy I read about in the Exy Times,” Jeremy says. “It's called putting in the effort.”

“You think you're so funny,” Palmer says. “Ha ha. Exy Times. Dick.”

Jeremy snorts and switches to another game.

*

The Typhoons take the court, a huddle of athletes that will form an organized line by the time they get to center court. Without Jean, they would be intimidating enough. With him, they look unstoppable, young and arrogant and everything Jeremy envisioned for his own first team out of college.

Oliver has an arm draped over Jean's shoulder. Oliver is saying something Jeremy obviously can't make out from this far away. Jeremy remembers being in both positions, being Jean's captain and being captained by Oliver, and he's not sure which of them he envies more. Actually, that isn't completely honest, and his therapist is trying to get him to be more honest. He is definitely more envious of Oliver, who, even as Jeremy considers this, claps Jean once on the back and speeds up to take his position at the front of the line of Typhoons.

Jeremy shifts a little next to Chioma, who glances at him.

“What's the deal?” she asks. “You're not worried, are you?”

“Only facing the top-ranked team in the eastern conference,” Jeremy says. “No big deal. I've played stronger teams in more serious games.”

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

“Then stop fidgeting.”

“I'm not fidgeting,” Jeremy says, forcing himself to stand still. 

The Typhoons finally reach them. Oliver, pathologically friendly as ever, hugs Pat hello even though they almost definitely have never met before. By the time he gets to Jeremy, he's already laughing.

“Jeremy Knox,” Oliver says, actually squeezing Jeremy around the waist. “Welcome to the eastern conference.”

“It's good to be here,” Jeremy says. “And good to see you. Go easy on us.”

“You don't mean that,” Oliver says, which is accurate enough.

When Jean gets there, Jeremy raises his stick to clack it against Jean's. For a second, he thinks Jean is going to refuse to do it, or maybe that he will do it without making eye contact. A few phone conversations and texts don't necessarily constitute actually making up. Or maybe they do. Jeremy has never fought with his best friend for six months straight.

“No hug?” Jean asks, which startles Jeremy into laughing. 

He throws his arms around Jean. Even through the armor, he can tell Jean smells nice. Jean always smells nice, even after a full game, even after drawn out messy practices. Jeremy didn't expect to feel like this, shocked and pleased, his stomach churning for no reason at all.

“Good luck,” he tells Jean, whose eye contact from behind the helmet suggests he doesn't need luck. “Come out with me after.”

“If you lose very badly, will you be in a terrible mood and refuse to have fun?”

“A tiger can't change his stripes,” Jeremy replies.

“Can a jaguar?”

Jeremy starts to respond, but Jean gets pushed forward by the next Typhoon, who evidently doesn't think now is the time for full conversations. Jeremy has no idea what he would even say. 

The game starts. Boston get first serve, but Miami win the ball back almost immediately. What follows is fifteen minutes of dominance, the kind Jeremy would have once enjoyed watching or even playing himself. 

It isn't nearly as fun being on the receiving end. He remembers what Palmer said about disrespect, but this doesn't feel like disrespect. It feels like being toyed with, like being a cat's prey.

The Typhoons score a goal seven minutes in, then another eight minutes later. Jeremy can feel himself getting frustrated, but Pat is on the court right now, so it isn't Jeremy's job to yell at everyone. 

He sees an opportunity at last, charges forward to intercept a pass, and then gets halfway down the court before someone rams into him.

Jean came out of nowhere, faster than Jeremy remembers from being on a court with him, taking advantage of the blindspot created by Jeremy's helmet. Jeremy keeps hold of the ball and rams right back.

For a moment, it's like they're the only ones on the court, like that time they practiced together after the Trojans lost to Stanford. Jeremy remembers: Jean, regimented in his play style during official games, suddenly having no qualms about fouls and dirty plays. Jeremy fighting right back. Jean's racquet smashing against his so hard Jeremy felt reverberations, Jean's shoulder driving into his chest, Jean getting the ball and sprinting like a striker. 

Now, Jean pushes harder. Jeremy loses hold of his racquet. The ball rolls away. Jeremy shoves Jean off him, snatches his racquet off the floor, and follows the ball.

This time, Jean backs up into Jeremy to dispossess him, uses him as leverage to get the pass off to a Typhoon. Jeremy hasn't seen that move from Jean before; it's something smaller players do. He laughs, a little breathlessly, and drops back to position himself for when his backliners get the ball away from Miami.

*

Jeremy wasn't planning on sticking around for press, but a post-game conversation with Oliver means he's on the court for too long to avoid them.

“You're looking good, Jeremy!” one reporter says. “How do you keep that healthy summer glow year-round?”

“I'm brown,” says Jeremy, who has never been paler in his life due to Boston's astonishing lack of sunlight in the late fall. “It's literally just the color of my skin.”

Another reporter asks, “How was it playing against your former teammate and best friend Jean Moreau?”

From this vantage point, Jeremy can't see him, but he hasn't stopped thinking about Jean since—he doesn't know since when. Since Jean arrived on this court, maybe, or maybe it was before that, since Jean arrived in Boston, or since Jeremy saw him in L.A. Earlier, maybe, when Jean got to L.A. almost two years ago, a complete mess. 

He's not a mess anymore. He is just … tall. And still as good-looking as ever, even from behind a helmet, and ruthless on the court and still willing to talk to Jeremy off it.

“He's an incredible athlete,” Jeremy says. He finds himself at a loss for words. That always happens when he needs to talk about Jean. He clears his throat. “I think he elevates the entire game just by being on the court.”

“There's no rivalry there, then?”

Jeremy laughs. “I never said that. I always want to be a good enough striker to keep the ball away from him.”

“So your metric of success is how well you play against Jean Moreau?”

Whoops. He is usually better at this. “And players like him, yeah.” He casts around for an excuse to get away, and comes up with only, “I have to go shower.” 

It's enough of an escape. He pushes his way toward the locker room and is grateful for its relative quiet.

*

“Okay, so, like, obviously it's too late for me to take you everywhere I want to take you,” Jeremy says, tugging Jean's wrist to lead him in the direction of the subway. The game ended an hour and a half ago. Jean's team are in some hotel in Back Bay, but Jeremy kidnapped Jean as soon as he could. “But you should think about coming out during a break—like, I walk around sometimes and I'm just like, oh, wow, like, Jean would definitely love it here. Not everything, but I think it'd be a fun city to visit. And it's small, so you could see it in like a weekend honestly—”

Jean sits down on the train, looking around like he has entered a museum exhibit. “Are you done trying to convince me to come visit you?”

“Have you decided to come back yet?”

“Of course. Not during winter, obviously. This is cold enough for me. But maybe summer.” Jean turns abruptly toward Jeremy. “But you have to come to Miami, too.”

“Miami in winter sounds ideal,” Jeremy says. “Do you have plans around then?”

“Alvarez wants me to spend New Year's with her family,” Jean says. “And I am learning Spanish, so I have no excuses this time around. What do you think?”

“You should come.”

“We could fly to Miami after,” Jean says. “If you want to.”

“That sounds like so much fun. That sounds like—I don't know. I really miss hanging out with you.” Jeremy glances up as the train careens to a halt. “This is our stop, come on.”

All they really have time to do is hang out at Jeremy's favorite rooftop bar for a couple of hours, but it's a fun night anyway. Jeremy didn't expect it when he biked to the court that afternoon. He thought it'd be a tough game, an awkward interaction or two with Jean, and then drinks with his teammates. This is way beyond anything he could have imagined, which shouldn't make any sense because it's exactly what would've happened before they fought. 

“I can't believe you're still taking Spanish,” Jeremy says, leaning back against the railing. It has crossed the line from chilly out to downright cold, but the alcohol and the company keep him warm enough. Not to mention his jacket. Everyone else out here is definitely past the point of inebriated. “That's going to make, what, four languages? Five?”

“I live in Miami,” Jean says, swirling his drink with his straw. “Am I supposed to walk around not knowing what anyone is saying?”

Jeremy laughs. “I guess not. Plus now you can learn to like turkey at the Alvarezes' Thanksgiving dinner every year.”

“Are you going this year?”

Jeremy shakes his head. “Too far, and I'm going to be back in L.A. anyway for New Year's, so I might as well hang around here. I've heard they love Thanksgiving here. Did you know the first Thanksgiving was, like, fifty miles from where we're standing right now?” 

“I have only heard the myth of the first Thanksgiving,” Jean says. “What was the actual story? The Pilgrims killed everyone and stole their food?”

“I mean, eventually I'm pretty sure that's exactly what they did. All I know is that I'm pretty sure they didn't actually eat turkey. And definitely not pumpkin pie.”

“What is pumpkin pie? How does one make a pie out of pumpkin?”

“You, like, bake it and mash it and add sugar to it—are you fucking with me?”

Jean shrugs. “Some American traditions seem … bizarre. Even now.”

“Don't start. Don't you guys have a festival where you stomp on tomatoes or something?”

“That's Spain,” Jean says. “But our national holiday references the destruction of absolute monarchy and the fight for independence that cost thousands of people their lives, so, yes, we are ridiculous as well.”

Jeremy rolls his eyes. “Okay, our national holiday literally also does exactly that. Doesn't mean we don't still have weird traditions.”

“France's weird tradition is colonizing Africa,” Jean says, dry. “Although the U.S. might have that in common with us as well.”

“When did you get so funny? All the humidity is doing great things for your sense of humor.”

“Is this funny?” Jean grants Jeremy a rare smile. It makes the contents of Jeremy's stomach swirl. “You look happy.”

“I am happy,” Jeremy says. “Back in therapy. Not currently on meds. Working through all my shit, as usual. But I'm happy.”

“That's good. I was worried about you.”

“That's sweet.” Jeremy twists a little to look at Jean properly. “Hey. I'm sorry.”

“About what?”

“The Miami stuff.” The building isn't really tall enough for its rooftop to have a good view of the city, and it's cold, but there are plenty of people out here anyway. Jeremy is adjusting to the weather, but it's taking a very long time. “You were right. I shouldn't—I can't make choices for you.”

“Would you be saying this if I were riding the bench?” Jean asks. “Or would you accept that even if I were, it was still my call to make?”

That should sting less. “I'm a good person, but I don't know if I could've avoided saying I told you so.”

“Maybe you are not that good of a person then,” Jean says. He tips back the rest of his drink, looks around the bar to get a server's attention for a refill. “It's forgiven.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Jeremy says. “Because I miss you like crazy.” 

Jean freezes. He actually freezes, stops moving partway through raising his glass at the bartender. Jeremy waits for Jean to make eye contact, but it doesn't come.

“I miss you too,” Jean says, a little stiff. 

“I've been like—just totally filling up my days. Doing so much stuff just to distract from how much I miss you. I'm just so tired of us not being—” Jeremy waves a hand in the air. “In sync. You know? Like we were my fifth year at USC. After the final. Driving around and stuff. Or like when you were in Houston for winter break. Like, wasn't that comfortable?”

“Comfortable,” Jean says, a little faintly. 

“I know this year has been really hard,” Jeremy continues. “That was my fault. I don't want to do that again.”

Jean looks back at Jeremy, eyes wide. “You liked that? Being—comfortable?”

“I don't know,” Jeremy says. He doesn't know what Jean is getting at. “All I want is for us to be friends.”

“That's all you want?” 

Jeremy still can't read his expression. It can't possibly be sad, not unless Jean is about to deliver some terrible news. 

“Well, that and for my dog to live forever.” Jeremy wants to touch Jean, comfort him, get that look off his face. He settles for playing with Jean's sleeve and then finds himself tracing the lines on Jean's palm. He feels like he is walking a very thin line, and he has no idea what side of it he is going to end up on. “One of those things is possible. And don't say it's my dog being immortal. You're not going to get rid of me.”

Jean takes his hand back, tucks it into his pocket. Jeremy thinks he is about to be told to never talk to Jean again, that their fight really was the end of all this, but then Jean shuffles closer until their shoulders are pressed together.

“You are not getting rid of me, either,” Jean says. “I should have told you immediately. I'm sorry.”

“Also forgiven.” Jeremy drops his head to Jean's shoulder. He has the strangest feeling, like if he stepped off this roof right now, he could probably fly. “Let's never fight again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> over under on when they'll kiss? my money's on chapter 68
> 
> tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com). please leave a comment if you enjoyed (or suffered) or spotted a typo!


	29. new year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)

The Alvarezes are a welcome reprieve from the nonstop exy of the last few months. Most of the adult-adults are inside celebrating, while everyone in the vicinity of Jean's age is outside. The Alvarezes even extended an invitation to Rogelio and his family, and with Laila and Jeremy here as well, it works as a kind of mini-reunion.

“You're learning Spanish?” one of Alvarez's cousins asks. “What do you know?

They're sitting in a circle playing a drinking game well before midnight, and Jean is just drunk enough to feel off-center.

“Not much,” Jean admits, pressing his palms against the grass behind him. “Every time I find a gap I try to Spanishize my French. Sometimes it works.”

“Say that again, but say it in Spanish,” the cousin says. 

Jean makes an attempt. 

The cousin smiles. “Your accent is cute.”

Across the circle, tucked in between Alvarez and Rogelio's older sister, Jeremy raises an eyebrow. Jean wonders if he can hear their conversation. 

Something happens in the game, and they all take a drink. Jean returns his attention to the cousin after that and says, in faltering Spanish, “That is just as patronizing in every language.”

She laughs. “I agree, actually. At least Spanish is a language you're not already fluent in, right? It'd be really rude if I said it about English.”

“I have done most of my education in English.” Jean meets Jeremy's eyes again. He distinctly remembers: _Your English is way better than mine._ He wonders if he can remember everything Jeremy has ever said to him if he tries, piece together their relationship based on all their previous conversations and figure out where they went wrong. “Sometimes I feel more comfortable in English than in French. Certainly I feel more comfortable writing in English than in French.”

“And in Spanish?”

The drinking game breaks up a little. Jean stands up to go get something to eat. He feels too loose too early, and the only solution he can think of is to eat some carbohydrates and drink some espresso. 

“In Spanish, I can only write about my summer vacations and what I like to do on weekends.”

“Are you getting food? Don't disappear on me,” the cousin says. “I still need someone to kiss at midnight.”

Jean quirks the corner of his lip up at her—Alvarez said family was off limits, and he is on his best behavior, but maybe midnight doesn't count—and wanders away to find something to eat.

He runs right into Jeremy, whom Jean has noticed watching him intently all night. 

“What?” Jean asks. 

“Nothing,” Jeremy says. “I don't know. You just kind of—look like you belong here.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Jeremy smiles. “Of course. This is, like, basically my family.”

Jean stares at him. He doesn't know if he should laugh or scream or smile or cry. 

He is saved from the decision by one of Alvarez's relatives snatching Jeremy's hand and leading him away from the table. Her Spanish is too quick for Jean to comprehend; he thinks he catches some conjugation of querer, to want, and por qué, why.

“So that's still a thing?” Laila asks.

Jean jumps. “Jesus Christ. How long have you been watching me?”

“Like forty-five seconds, but I could still tell. So it's still a thing?”

“No,” Jean lies. “We are friends. Just friends. That is all he wants.”

“He said that?”

“Yes.”

Laila's gaze is steady. “And you're okay with that?”

“I have to be, don't I?”

“No.” She stirs a steaming mug of something probably nonalcoholic with a long spoon. “You get to decide if that's enough for you or not.”

“Could you be just friends with Alvarez?”

Laila sighs and curls warm fingers around Jean's. The contact is startling and startlingly comforting. Jean has no idea when he got this soft. 

“No,” she says. “I couldn't.” A pause, and then: “I'm going to ask her to marry me.”

“You are twenty-four. Isn't that a little young?”

“Yeah, I just—I don't know. I probably won't do it tomorrow or anything, but it's gong to happen. I mean, I've known since I met her, Jean. Long distance sucks, but not as much as I thought, and—I just want to tie this down for good.”

Again, Jean's reaction startles him. He is smiling. 

“That is—incredible.”

Laila sighs. “You're drunk and mopey. Maybe this was the wrong time to tell you.”

“No,” Jean says. “It is the opposite. This made me feel better. I love you, and I love seeing you happy.”

“I knew you were like that.” Laila squeezes his hand. “Don't get sappy on me, Moreau. I can't have you crying during your speech.”

“My—what?”

“Shh,” she says. “Can't count your chickens before they hatch, right?”

“Muslim weddings do not have maids of honor and best men.”

“It's, like, kind of weird that I always have to say this to you,” Laila says, stealing some of the chips off Jean's plate, “but being Senegalese and from Marseille does not make you an expert on Islam.”

Alvarez walks into the room then, her little sister in tow. Both of them light up when they look in Laila's direction. Jean can't believe he has declined invitations to this so many times.

“Go,” he says. “I will practice my Spanish with Diaz.”

Laila laughs. “You guys are bros suddenly? I didn't realize Alvarez having his family over would create such miracles.”

“I never had a problem with him,” Jean says. “He envied me.”

“Only because Jeremy loved you more,” Laila says, and then winces. “Sorry. I'm going.”

*

Jean wonders if he and Jeremy are drawn together by some supernatural forces or if it's just a coincidence that they keep running into each other at the most inconvenient times. This is a party. There are lots of people here. Why is Jeremy the one Jean keeps seeing?

Jean throws back the shot Jeremy offers him.

“You look drunk,” Jean observes.

Jeremy grins. “It's almost midnight,” he says. “Better find someone to kiss.”

Jean has that too-drunk feeling where he can't quite tell how hard to put his foot down every time he takes a step. He wobbles a little, attempts a smile. He still can't tell what they're doing. Is it flirting? Is this how normal close friends speak to each other? If Theo said this to him, Jean would tell him to stop being so nosy. If Laila said it, Jean would joke that she should find him someone.

He says, “I have never kissed anyone at midnight before.”

“No?” Jeremy says. He is carefully out of arm's reach, Jean notices, or maybe it isn't careful, maybe it's just natural. Which is good. That is how friends act. “That's hard to believe for some reason.”

“Is it? This is only my third New Year's out of the Nest.” And his first ever New Year's party. He didn't know kissing at midnight was a thing, really.

Alvarez's cousin from before, Camila her name was, like the French Camille, Jean has an aunt—not an aunt by blood, one of his mother's close friends—finds him again.

“Hey,” she says. 

The countdown starts. Jeremy is still watching him and still a few steps too far away. Jean can feel that terrible pressure in his chest, like he is about to throw a tantrum. He wishes he had his racquet, imagines himself smashing every bottle on the table. He takes a deep breath.

Camila leans forward. 

“I'm gay,” he blurts, a half-truth and a dick move, and as the clock strikes midnight, he flees. 

He makes it to his hotel in time to throw up. He'll have to pick up his car in the morning, he thinks, and this hotel has free breakfast, which is nice.

When he drops into bed, the room spins around him. He closes his eyes anyway and goes to sleep.

*

Because the world and fate and destiny and all that like to make Jean miserable, he has to go back to Alvarez's in the morning, wake her up so she will open the door, and find his keys in the mess from last night's partying. He needs to pick around the people sleeping on the floor, and at one point he accidentally steps on Rogelio's fingers. It doesn't even wake him up, which Jean supposes is the one time in his life that he has ever gotten lucky.

Jeremy catches Jean in the kitchen. He looks hungover and exactly like Jean remembers him from their days as roommates.

“Jesus, it was so smart to book our flight for tonight,” Jeremy says. “I definitely couldn't get on a plane right now.”

“You are flying to Miami with me,” Jean says. “I completely forgot.”

Jeremy pauses with his glass of orange juice halfway to his mouth, and Jean can see him trying to process this. Usually Jeremy is more subtle about his surprise, but he has to be excused. It is, after all, only nine hours after midnight.

“You still want me to come, right?”

“Of course,” Jean says quickly. “I am just—hungover. It slipped my mind.”

“When did you leave last night?” Jeremy asks. “I didn't even see you. We were talking one minute, and then Camila was trying to get in those jeans, and then I didn't see you again.”

“I was drunk, so I got an Uber right after the ball dropped.”

“You know the ball drops three hours earlier in New York than it does here, right?”

“Do you have a point?”

“Yeah, that you didn't leave right after the ball dropped.”

“Pedantry,” Jean says, trying not to smile and hating the impulse. “Very attractive. Good for you.”

“I kind of thought you might have left with her,” Jeremy says. “Camila, I mean. But you seemed kinda drunk, and I know that's not your thing.”

Sometimes Jean wonders if Jeremy says things like this on purpose. 

“I have to go,” Jean says. “I will pick you up tonight?”

“You _have_ to go? You have plans in the city?”

“Meetings,” Jean says. The only meeting he has set for today is with food and his hotel TV, but he doesn't tell Jeremy that. He needs to spend the day preparing to spend an entire week in Jeremy's company. It felt like such a good idea when they planned it. Now he can't think of anything he wants to do less, except possibly spend the entire week away from Jeremy. 

“Oh,” Jeremy says. “Okay. I'll see you later.”

He steps forward—probably for a hug goodbye—but Jean dodges him, gathers his car keys, and tiptoes back out of the house.

*

“You don't have to drive slow for me,” Jeremy says. They both slept through their flight to Miami, thankfully—Jean with the help of a melatonin and the biggest headphones he could find—and have just gotten Jean's car out of the lot and onto the highway. Even from here, Jean can smell the ocean. “I've been practicing. In therapy. Do you.”

Jean usually drives as quickly as traffic will allow, and this time of day, the highway isn't very busy. He could push his car well past a hundred if he wanted to. Part of him does; part of him wants to test Jeremy's limits, see how far his practice will actually take him.

Instead Jean just presses the gas a little more. 

“You have been practicing being a passenger?” Jean asks.

“Just not freaking out in cars. Like short cab rides and stuff. I haven't gone past fifteen minutes in a cab yet, but I feel like I could sit in this car while we drove to like Orlando or something.”

“You know, before—last spring, I was going to ask you to come on a road trip with me,” Jean says.

“A road trip? Really?”

“Yes. From L.A. to Miami when I moved.”

“Oh,” Jeremy says. “I don't know if I could've done it.”

“We could have gone slowly,” Jean says. “Over the course of a week or two. I have not seen very much of the South, and it would have been nice to stop in Arizona or parts of Texas, and maybe New Orleans.”

“As long as we drove straight through Mississippi without stopping,” Jeremy says. “Actually, that might have worked. We would've just had to only stop in bigger cities, and I don't know how long I could sit in a car without freaking out, but—”

“There are parts of Texas where we could not stop, but we could have driven through Austin and Houston. Or we could have cut through Mexico.”

Jeremy fiddles with Jean's glove compartment, finally taking out his old pack of mints. “You really thought it through.”

Jean doesn't tell Jeremy that he stopped just short of actually booking hotels. He merges into the exit lane.

“We're close,” he says. “Get ready to be underwhelmed.”

*

“I am so far from underwhelmed,” Jeremy says, looking around Jean's place. “This space is amazing. The pastel colors don't seem quite your style, but it just looks so airy and fresh in here.”

“Yes, obviously the decorations were not my choice, but they've grown on me. I would give you a tour, but there is not much to see—the back door opens onto a balcony overlooking the beach, and that door is my room, then the bathroom, then the guest room is over there—it has a beach view, too, you will enjoy waking up in it—”

“This opens onto the beach?” Jeremy drops his bags by the back door and pushes it open. “Jesus. That's some view, dude.”

“Perks of playing for the Miami Typhoons,” Jean says. “Are you hungry?”

“Are you cooking? Do you cook?”

“You cooked for me,” Jean says. “Following a recipe can't be that difficult.”

Jeremy laughs. “Why not? Because I can do it?”

“Exactly.” Jean walks into the kitchen, opens the refrigerator. There is a box of pastries from a bakery Jeremy made them stop at, a piece of marinated fish he bought ready to bake, and an assortment of vegetables. “Do you like fish?”

Between cooking and eating and working their way through a bottle of wine, it takes them forever to get through dinner. Jeremy's knee keeps bumping against Jean's under the table. It's Jean's fault, really, for not anticipating this and getting a bigger table before Jeremy arrived. 

“Is there anything you want to do while you're here?” Jean asks. “We have a week. We could just spend it on the beach.”

“I seriously miss the beach so much,” Jeremy says. “It's already so fucking cold in Boston. I wouldn't mind just plopping down on a towel and trying to get tan.”

“But you feel good about your choice to go there?”

“Yeah, I do.” Jeremy finishes his last bite of fish. “You know, I feel good about a lot of things right now. Like—obviously Boston, and my dog, and all my friendships and stuff. I feel super, like, I don't know, content I guess. I mean, not really, because there's stuff that I—I mean, I just wanted to tell you I feel really good about where we're at right now. Remember when we almost slept together?”

Jean doesn't know how he could possibly forget. “Yes.”

“I feel like we got closer in some ways after that, but we were never at that level of, like, just complete comfort around each other again.”

Jean refills his wine glass, finishing the bottle. “What happened to avoiding conversations that were treatises on our relationship?”

“I don't know,” Jeremy says. “I don't want there to be these, like, I don't know, just ridiculous boundaries between us.”

“Maybe I needed the boundaries,” Jean says.

“Past tense?”

Jean aches, actually physically aches. Jeremy doesn't know. After all this, how can he not know? Jean feels like he has been pretty transparent, and at every turn, Jeremy has turned him down.

This isn't enough. It isn't right. This is unfair to both of them, painful for Jean and cruel to Jeremy, and for what? One day Jeremy will find love, and he might do something awful like ask Jean to be the best man at his wedding, and then what?

“I thought this was enough,” Jean says. “Maybe it is not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Jean says. “Never mind.”

“No, if something's bothering you—I mean, I think we should talk about it. Like, I just—I don't know, just tell me what I did, and I'll apologize for it, I'll try to do better, I just don't—Jesus, Jean, we already did this.”

“You're right. You are completely right.” Jean picks at his napkin. “I'm sorry.”

“I just want to move forward.” 

Jean bites down the question that climbs its way up his throat: forward where?

“Jean,” Jeremy says, a little panicky. “I was miserable without you.”

“I know,” Jean says, because he does know, and isn't that the whole problem? “I'm sorry. You're right. We can put it behind us.”

“What do you want to do?”

Jean can't figure out how to phrase this. He wants everything. It isn't fair, but he knows better than to expect fairness. “Let's just finish dinner.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Do you want dessert?”

Jeremy stares at him. “That's it? You don't want to talk?”

“What more is there to talk about?”

“I don't know.” Jeremy sets his fork down. “You were the one who said it wasn't enough.”

“I misspoke.”

“You misspoke.”

“Yes.”

“Jean, I thought we were good.”

“We are good.”

“Okay,” Jeremy says. “Okay. I don't want to—let's, yeah, sure, let's have dessert.”

Jean goes to the kitchen to get the dessert and try to get his shit together. He has no idea why he is so rattled. Well, no, that is not completely honest. He has _some_ idea. He just thought he had all of this under control.

He stands at the sink and holds his wrists under the tap, trying to get his pulse to stop racing. He inhales and exhales and tries to steady his breathing. He can hear movement in the other room, but the last thing he wants is to look and see Jeremy doing something ridiculous like making a friendship bracelet.

He is not supposed to think about the time they almost slept together, or about how much Jeremy likes just being friends, or about their fight. He is supposed to focus on the positive parts of their relationship, the parts that bring him joy, like Jeremy keeping his mints in Jean's car and listening to terrible music and making dark jokes about both of their pasts. 

All he wants to do is go for a swim. It might be too cold by now, but Jeremy could probably be convinced. It might be nice to swim in the ocean together, too cold and out of breath to argue. They've had a lot of nice beachside conversations.

Jean takes the box of pastries out of the fridge. Jeremy promised that Cuban baked goods are delicious. Jean has no reason to doubt that.

They shouldn't open another bottle of wine if they're going to swim, so Jean puts the kettle on instead. Herbal tea. They can relax. Get back into their usual friendly groove. It might be tough, but it won't be impossible. They've always been able to do it before. Deep breaths. Jean is fine. 

“Hey.”

Jean looks up. Jeremy has come over from the other room, backpack slung over one shoulder.

Just like that, Jean's panic comes back. 

“Hi,” Jean says. “I was going to make some tea, and then I thought we could go outside for a swim—”

“I think I'm going to go,” Jeremy interrupts. “There's a flight to Boston in a couple hours, and I just feel like—I don't know. I don't want to just sit here and feel awkward and sad for a whole week.”

“You're leaving,” Jean says. “I didn't realize we just had a fight.”

“We didn't,” Jeremy says. “I just feel like you're doing that thing where you're mad at me and you pretend you're not and you get all quiet.”

“I don't do that.”

“You—” Jeremy says, and then looks away. “I mean, do you really think we'd have fun if I stayed?”

Jean has never been in the business of begging people not to leave him. Maybe that is why they keep doing it.

“No,” he says. Jeremy is probably right. This relationship is better at arm's length, when Jean doesn't actually have to look Jeremy in the eye and pretend, when Jean can send cheerful well thought out texts instead of accidentally saying something dangerously close to the truth. Because this is what happens whenever he does that. Awkwardness and arguments and—“I don't.” He waits, but Jeremy doesn't say anything else. “Let me take you to the airport, then.”

“There's a bus.”

“Oh.”

Jeremy wavers in the doorway. For a moment, Jean thinks he might change his mind.

The kettle starts to whistle behind him. 

Jeremy says, “I just—bye. I guess.”

“You're not going to hug me goodbye?”

Jeremy puts his backpack down. “Of course I am.”

He does. Jean hates every second of it, and he sort of hates himself for asking for it. How much more pathetic, honestly, can he get?

In any case, it does not change anything. Jeremy lets go, and then he picks up his bags and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on tumblr [here](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com). please leave a comment if you enjoyed/suffered or spotted a typo!
> 
> just trust me!


	30. jean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u follow me on tumblr you know i've been through a lot wrt to this dumb fic today but i lived bitch

Jeremy has a headache.

He's had one for the past two days, actually. Just the worst throbbing headache. It must be from traveling and drinking so much in such a short amount of time. In hindsight, flying to Miami from L.A. two days after flying to L.A. from Boston might not have been the smartest plan. Coating the entire trip in copious amounts of hard liquor and red wine couldn't have helped.

He rests his head against the bus window. He can't remember the last time he felt this awful, nauseated, achy, completely fucking miserable.

His flight is in a couple of hours. Once he is on the plane, he can chug a couple of mini bottles of liquor and sleep until he lands in Boston, at which point he can chase more liquor with some Nyquil and properly crash. He is convinced that if he just sleeps for a solid day, he'll come out the other end feeling more like himself.

He doesn't know where he went wrong. Somewhere along the line, he must have made a mistake, but it feels like it was so far back that if he tries to fix it, he'll unravel the last few years of his life. 

He tries to calm his breathing. He has been tense for two straight days, and for some reason his conversation with Jean sent him into full panic mode. He had to control his breathing just to tell Jean goodbye. The concept of sitting in Jean's car for the forty-five minute ride back to the airport made him sort of want to die.

Maybe the mistake was bringing up their fight or their aborted hookup. Maybe it was agreeing to go to Miami for winter break. Or maybe it goes further back—when he chose USC over Penn State and Duke, or when he let himself get recruited to play college exy, or when he kept playing this fucking sport when he started high school.

He closes his eyes. The bus skips over a couple potholes. It reminds him of Jean charging down the highway, speeding up ever so slightly when Jeremy suggested he could go faster. He thinks about Jean's Spanish, the R's too soft, his attempts to roll the letter.

Fuck. Jeremy doesn't even know what he's doing here, on this bus from Jean's house to the airport, in fucking Miami. Jean is exactly right about him. He keeps doing things without thinking about the repercussions. He's supposed to have worked through this, and yet here he is, half an hour after having abandoned his best friend who, Jeremy should have considered, has _abandonment issues_.

He takes out his phone to send a text, but he has no idea what to say. I'm sorry I ran out of your apartment the second things got awkward? I love you? What the fuck is your problem?

He thought they were solid. He doesn't know why Jean keeps suggesting that maybe they're not. Jeremy doesn't get it. One second Jean will flirt with him, and the next he will get cold for no reason, and then he will say something cryptic, and then he will apologize. It's the same pattern. It has been the same pattern for so long now, maybe even before they fought.

Jeremy gets off the bus and drags his shit through check-in. He upgrades his flight because he can. He gets in the security line.

He just doesn't get it. They're supposed to be best friends. Jeremy loves Jean more than probably anyone else, and just because at some point he wanted to sleep with Jean, doesn't mean they can't still be friends. 

Jean keeps suggesting that their friendship isn't quite right. Jeremy doesn't know what's missing. What is it about this, about him, that isn't enough? He's supposed to be past this, too, the inadequacy thing. He got over it. He's been over it. He went to fucking therapy. For years. 

Maybe that's not quite it. Maybe it isn't what Jean meant. But what—

“Sir? Excuse me. Sir. I need to see your boarding pass.”

Jeremy blinks. The TSA agent in front of him holds out a hand expectantly. 

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” 

He gets past security and sits down on a bench to put his shoes back on. He thinks back to his conversation with Jean in Boston. He thought they made up. He thought the disaster that his personal life has been for the last year was over. 

Everything seemed fine. Jean got weird toward the end of the night. What changed?

Jeremy said all he wanted was for them to be friends again, and Jean was surprised. Why would he be surprised? Why would he be surprised by a return to the status quo?

The day they argued, Jeremy could've sworn Jean was getting ready to kiss him. He really thought that was the direction they were going. When it wasn't, Jeremy got over it. He'd be happy with both. He'd be happy with either. He just wants to have _something_ with Jean. He doesn't understand why it isn't working. Every time they argue, it takes longer for them to make up, and then every time they make up, it lasts for less time before they argue again. He just doesn't understand why.

Jean thinks he's subtle, but he isn't. Jeremy can't read him perfectly, but he can tell when Jean is upset. He has his habits. When you know him, they're obvious. 

Jeremy searches for his terminal and settles in a seat close by the gate. He puts his headphones on and plays his current go-to playlist. 

Maybe he's been thinking about this wrong. This whole time, he has assumed that Jean is on the same page as him: sex would be nice, but friendship is enough, maybe even ideal. So what if sometimes Jeremy thinks he can't visualize a future without Jean in it? So what if Jeremy tried to leverage his own power to get Jean to play in Boston so they'd be together all the time? So what if Jeremy has been avoiding thinking about what he really wants for a year, two years, maybe more?

But maybe Jean isn't on the same page. Maybe when they were in Jean's dorm room, Jean wanted to say something other than just that he was moving to Miami. He just seemed so blindsided by Jeremy's reaction. There must have been something more. No one feels up their best friend just to tell them bad news.

And if Jean was going to say something like that, like telling Jeremy he likes him, then when they were in Boston that was what he must have meant. That's all you want, as in, you don't want to try a relationship. Which means when he said it wasn't enough—

“Holy shit,” Jeremy says aloud. “I am so stupid.” His therapist keeps telling him not to say that, but he can't think of a better description right now.

He calls Jean. The phone rings and rings, but Jean doesn't answer. Of course he doesn't. Jean is capable of an intense cold shoulder.

His flight number gets called. Jeremy gets up, hauling his backpack over his shoulder. He calls Jean again, and then he texts, _EMERGENCY PLEASE PICK UP_. If Jean thinks it's an emergency, he'll answer. Surely.

He doesn't. 

Jeremy calls Laila instead.

“I'm at dinner with Alvarez's parents,” she says. “I can't really talk.”

“Do you think Jean is in love with me?”

Laila doesn't say anything for a moment, clearly getting away from their dinner table, and then, “Did he say something?”

“You tell me.”

“You should just talk to him. Aren't you with him right now?”

“No,” Jeremy says. “We had—I don't know, it was super weird, I had an anxiety thing, I just left. I'm literally about to get on a plane home.”

“You left?”

“And now he's not answering the phone, and I know he's probably fine, but I just feel like I really fucked up, you know?”

“Wait,” Laila says. “How do you feel? About him, I mean? Because—I mean, he's been through a lot. Don't just—if you're going to ask him that, you need to have some kind of response ready if he says yes.”

“I mean, I don't know. I love him as a friend, sure, and, like, he's super hot, and I seriously wish I could sit next to him in his car for like an hour every day because he just gets so _sweet_ sometimes, like I can't even explain to you—but I've never really thought about, like, dating him. Or, I mean, that's not true, but he told me—he said it'd be a bad idea for us to hook up, and how am I supposed to take that? I mean, we don't live in the same place, we've barely talked all year, I'm a mess, he's kind of a mess—but when I think about it, like, we get along so well sometimes. And we've spent a lot of time together before and it's been fine. I mean, better than fine. Like, actually fucking great. I've just never—I mean, I don't know what it feels like. I wouldn't be able to recognize it, right? It can't just be—I don't even know, Laila, can you just tell me what to do?”

“God, I'm tired of this,” she says. “Do you want me to tell you that you guys have basically been in an on and off relationship without the sex for the last two years? Because you have.”

“Oh,” Jeremy says. He remembers the rumble in his stomach when he thought Jean and Theo might be a thing, the strange resentment at the thought of that girl Jean dated. “Oh. Jesus. Fuck. And I just left him after a non-argument.”

“A dick move, considering,” Laila says. “But he'd understand if you told him it was an anxiety thing.”

“That's not an excuse.”

“No. But he'd still understand.”

The announcer calls, “Final boarding call for flight AA 4057 to Boston!”

“Okay,” Jeremy says. “Okay.”

“Is that your flight?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy says. “I think—I don't know.”

“Are you getting on that plane?”

There's the sudden rush of anxiety up Jeremy's esophagus. Maybe it's just heartburn from the fish and the wine. 

“Jeremy.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you getting on the plane?”

He thinks of Jean's resigned disappointment, his request for a hug. He thinks of being pushed up against a hotel room door and kissed. Jean said it would be a bad idea, but maybe he meant—

No. He can't keep speculating.

“No,” he says. “I need to go back to Jean's place.”

There is a cheer on the other end. 

“Am I on speaker?” Jeremy asks. “Is that your girlfriend?”

“Who cares?” Laila says. “Go get on the bus!”

Jeremy hangs up. It's just about midnight. He might be able to catch the last bus if he runs.

He looks it up. The next bus is … seven hours from now. 

He missed it. At some point during this entire ordeal, he missed the last bus that would take him within a half mile of Jean.

He calls Jean again. No answer.

That leaves exactly one option. Well, multiple options, but all in the same category.

He only has one app for this on his phone. He opens it. He types in Jean's address. It's forty-five minutes away, forty-five minutes that were fine in Jean's car because it was Jean next to him, Jean who hasn't taken Jeremy's fucking mints out of his glove compartment even though they've been in there for like two years at this point.

Jeremy requests the Uber and goes outside to wait.

*

The Uber takes four minutes to arrive. Jeremy spends all four of those minutes doing mindfulness meditation. When he gets into the car, he gets thrown off anyway.

“Hi,” Jeremy says. 

The driver greets him in Spanish. Jeremy responds in kind and settles in the backseat. He clenches his fists and forces himself to breathe. The only thing he can really feel right now is the sharp pinpricks of pain from his fingernails. He closes his eyes.

The driver starts moving. He's really doing this. A forty-five minute ride.

“I get anxiety in cars,” he babbles in Spanish. “I get really bad anxiety in cars.”

“Then take the bus,” the driver says. “You want me to pull over?”

“No,” Jeremy says. “It's too late. I'm in a hurry. I need to see my—” But what is Jean to him, really? “I think I'm in love with my best friend.”

“Oh,” the driver says. 

“Can I talk? I know I—I just feel like if we talk, I can maybe calm down, and then I won't freak out and try to jump out of the car as soon as we get on the highway.”

“Of course,” the driver says. 

“Okay,” Jeremy says. “Okay.” He thinks he might be crying. He can't even pin down why. Maybe he's still tipsy. “I don't even know what to say. I just feel like—he just snuck up on me. I mean, I always knew he was beautiful, even before I knew _him_ , but then—everything kept happening so quickly, and every time it looked like he was going to fall apart, he just held up.”

He remembers Jean squeezing his helmet before their game against the Ravens, his utter refusal to stay home. _Promise you won't let me stay here_ , Jean said, because he is terrified of being abandoned, and Jeremy just—

“He's so strong,” Jeremy says. “And so brave, and—you know those people who you know you're a good person because they love you? It's like—” And now that he's started, he really can't stop, and it surprises him, because two hours ago he had no fucking clue. “It's like, this person who has been so hurt and could have just completely given up on establishing relationships and making friends, but instead he's just so ready to love. Like, I didn't even realize it at first, you know? But we lived together for a year, and he was always so open with me, like just trusted that I would—just be able to take it. And sometimes I was, and sometimes I had to make myself better in order to, like, accept everything that was coming from him. And sometimes it didn't even work.

“But he just kept doing it. Like, over and over, even when I fucked up or he fucked up, he was just always there. I've never known anyone like that, you know, where you can just—show them and tell them all the ugliness inside you, and instead of ignoring it or dismissing it or running away or whatever, they show you the ugliness inside them, and you aren't twins, but at least you know—I don't know. That you're both better than the worst thing that ever happened to you, I guess. It could break you, but it doesn't. Or maybe it does, but you can fix it, and you know you can fix it because you love each other.”

“You are Jeremy Knox, no?” the driver says. “You are famous for being nice.”

Oh.

Fuck.

He didn't realize he was saying all this to someone who recognized him. It makes sense, though. No one ever just assumes he speaks Spanish.

Jesus, it almost doesn't even matter. He can probably care beneath the heavy alternating layers of panic and shock, but he's too busy trying not to freak the fuck out and figure out what the fuck he feels to let himself care about this person knowing who he is. Who cares if he's outed? He was going to come out eventually anyway. It's an open secret already.

“Being nice in public is a lot easier than being nice in private,” Jeremy says. “I have to choose to be a good person in private. I could get away with worse, and I don't, because I know if I tried, I'd be just as bad as the kids who used to bully me. Or the people who hurt him.”

“This man you love.”

“Yes.”

“Does he know?”

“No,” Jeremy says. “I mean, I barely know. I just figured it out. But I mean, I think I've always loved him, probably. I just didn't know it was love—like this. I just thought it was like, oh, yeah, that's my friend, and he's really attractive, and I would do anything he asked of me, and I have butterflies all the time but I assumed It was just my anxiety disorder, but it's just—it's just so strong. It's like I'm drowning, and when he's there, at least I won't be drowning alone, but the last few months we've been fighting over—I don't know. Stuff that doesn't even matter, just total bullshit. And I don't know how to cope. Like, I don't even know how to end my day if it's not with a phone call with him. How do other people wind down? A glass of wine? A jog? I can't—when we don't talk, I'm such a mess. Any time anything happens, I just want to tell him about it. Like, stupid insignificant stuff. Like, I want to talk to him right now to tell him how ridiculous all of this is, but he won't answer the phone, and it's not—I mean, it's not like one of those new relationship things where you first meet someone and you're just totally fucking smitten and you're like, oh yeah, I love listening to them talk. I've been friends with him for almost three years, and I'm never tired of him. I could sit on the phone with him forever. I love the way he talks and the way he thinks and just—I don't know. Everything. I don't know what to do.”

“You know, Jeremy, that is how I loved my wife.”

Jeremy draws in a shaky breath. Love. _Love_. “How long have you been married?”

“We would have been married for thirty-three years in March, but she died.”

“Oh.” Jeremy blinks, too startled to even freak out about it. “I'm so sorry. Was it recent?”

“Last year,” the driver says. “She was visiting relatives outside of Chicago. She didn't know how to drive in the ice, and she skidded into a tree one night. By the time they found her, she had died.”

“That's terrible,” Jeremy says, familiar clamminess dampening his hands. He wipes them on his pants. He's fine. He's fine. 

“You know, it was not even the impact that killed her. It was the cold. She couldn't get out of the car to call for help, and she froze to death.” 

Jeremy forces himself to breathe evenly. “My parents died in a car accident when I was a little kid.”

“I know. I'm a Lightyears fan.”

“You know I barely played for them, right?”

“We would not have won playoffs without you. I wanted you to stay.”

“I like Boston,” Jeremy says. He does like Boston. Maybe he won't live there forever, but he likes it enough for now. “And I took on more of a leadership role. It's nice.”

“But this man you love,” the driver says. “He lives here?”

Jeremy didn't even need the reminder. He keeps catching himself imagining driving to practice alongside Jean every day. Jean at his back, steady, confident as hell, moving forward whenever he has the ball. Jean's music on the speakers, a top 40 song snuck in for Jeremy every few tracks. Jean teasing him in the kitchen, or making fun of his French, or hugging him goodbye, or catching Jeremy's wrist and playing with Jeremy's dog and being the only person who can make a sterile new space feel like home.

“He moved here a few months ago,” Jeremy says, because it's all too much. He doesn't know if he's remembering or imagining anymore, even. “He—we had a fight. Before he came. I thought he should come to Boston, or at least—see what the future did with him. But instead he came here, and he was right, and you know, that's another thing, like—it would be so easy, after going through all the stuff he went through, to just never trust your instincts again, right? But he did. And I should've just trusted him, too—I told him that, I mean, I apologized, but—how do you come back from that? Like, shoving your fingers into the, like, open wound of someone's insecurities? I know he—I mean, I don't think he forgives me exactly, but I know he's moved past it, but I just want him to know that I think—obviously I think the best person to make a call for Jean Moreau is Jean Moreau, and if I'm making it seem like that's not, like, exactly my thought process, that's on me, and that's such a—I don't want to ever make him feel like I'm trying to step on his choices. He gets to decide for himself. That's all I wanted, you know? Him to be able to—do whatever he wants. Whatever makes him happy. You know?”

“Just a moment,” the driver says. “This person you are so in love with is _Jean Moreau_? The Typhoons backliner?”

Oh, fuck. Jeremy's agent is going to be so pissed he outed them both without telling him. It didn't really matter when it was just him, but if Jean gets in trouble with the Moriyamas or something, it's going to be his fault, and Jean hasn't even gotten his own say in this. Jeremy is doing it again, taking control of Jean's life, and it wasn't even on purpose this time, _fuck_ —

“Is this his house?” the driver asks, pulling up. It's dark enough that Jeremy can't recognize the house immediately, but his car is obvious. 

“Yes,” Jeremy says. “I—thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Good luck, Jeremy Knox,” the driver says. 

Jeremy hauls his things out of the trunk and rings the doorbell.

No answer.

He calls Jean's phone.

Still nothing.

He texts Laila, who says that she hasn't heard back from Jean either.

Maybe he's asleep. He could just be asleep.

Jeremy rings the doorbell again. 

When there is still no answer, he sighs and drops down on Jean's stoop. Maybe that's it. Jean isn't ever going to talk to him again. Or maybe Jean is just fucking dead and that's why he isn't answering him or Laila. Or maybe—

It doesn't matter. Jeremy did all this for nothing. He should've just gone home, handled this over the phone or Skype or something. Instead he's stranded forty-five minutes from the airport, completely drained, watching as his hands shake. This was stupid. He feels like every time he's faced with a fork in the road, he goes down the wrong end. 

There's the click of a lock behind him, and then the door opens.

Jean is standing there, dripping wet and wearing the biggest sweater Jeremy has ever seen. It's cream. Jeremy has never imagined Jean in cream. 

“Hi,” Jeremy says.

Jean stares at him. “I thought you were leaving.”

“I can,” Jeremy says quickly. “It's your call. I just—I want to tell you something. I mean, I really need to tell you something. But if you don't want to hear it—I'll go.”

“No, I—” Jean looks at Jeremy's suitcase. “Please don't. I should have said it before. Please stay.”

Jeremy feels cracked open. He needs to take this slowly, get everything out, but the only thing he wants to do is wrap his arms around Jean and convince him that if there is one thing Jean can be sure of, it's that Jeremy won't go anywhere if Jean doesn't want him to. “You didn't answer your phone. I thought maybe you didn't want to—I don't know. I didn't really know what to think, honestly.”

“Are you the reason Laila has been texting me?”

“Yeah. She might've been worried you were dead.”

Jean arches an eyebrow.

“I don't know,” Jeremy says. “I feel like—okay. Sorry.” He takes a breath. “My Uber driver was a Lightyears fan whose wife died in a car accident. Isn't that an insane coincidence?”

“You took an Uber?” Jean looks skeptical. “From where?”

“From the airport.”

“What? You could have—I would have picked you up, you could have—” Jean stops, inhales, and then says all in one breath, “Jeremy, what are you doing here?”

“You weren't answering the phone. I had to see you.”

“I went for a swim.” 

That makes sense. Jean's sweater looks very comfortable. Knitwear looks good on him. He should model for some fancy knitwear brand. He should tell his agent.

“Oh,” Jeremy says. “It was probably pretty cold.”

“It was. Do you want to come inside?”

“Yeah, but I feel like—I want to tell you some stuff first.”

“You don't have to say anything. Just come inside.”

“Not yet. I just—I realized something.” Is it Jeremy's imagination, or do Jean's eyes widen? “You love me.”

“Of course I love you. I tell you that all the time.”

“No, you don't,” Jeremy says. “No, you don't. You never say it, and I think it's because you're _in_ love with me, but you are, and you know what? I'm—I'm not going to say I'm dumb because my therapist told me not to, but honestly, I didn't even know, and not only did I not know, but I didn't realize that I'm also completely head over heels in love with _you_.”

“No you aren't,” Jean says. “You are having a panic attack because we fought and you are worried you will lose me. You will not lose me. We'll just fight for a bit and—”

“We've been fighting for a bit all year. Maybe longer. I think we should try it.”

“Try what, Jeremy?”

“This,” Jeremy says. “Us.”

“You just sat in a stranger's car for an hour,” Jean says. “You are having an anxiety attack. You are not acting like yourself.”

“Okay, yes, I've had the worst anxiety all day, but that's the point. I'm acting like myself. This is what I act like when I realize something life-changing and tell the person I love that I love him and try to convince him to give it a try.”

“Jeremy,” Jean says. He looks like he might say something else, but then he just shakes his head. “What do you want me to say?”

“Say yes. Or don't. I don't know, you—you know what's best for yourself. But I think this could work.”

“We live on opposite sides of the country, we are both so busy, I have never been in a relationship, you have been single since you were nineteen—”

“We'd be happy,” Jeremy says. “Don't you think we deserve that? After everything?”

“Happiness is not something people deserve.”

“But don't you want it anyway?”

“But what if—” Jean sighs. “You are my best friend.”

“I'm not your best friend,” Jeremy says. “You said it. It's not enough. That's what you meant, right? You're in love with me. I'm in love with _you_. It's been getting in the way for months, hasn't it? And I miss you, and I don't just miss you, I actually love you, and it actually fucking wrecks me not to be around you. When I said—in Boston, when I said that was all I wanted, I meant us. Our connection. I didn't realize—I didn't know anything else was on the table.”

“You really didn't know?”

“I really didn't.”

“I thought—”

Jeremy knows. Jean must have thought Jeremy was rejecting him over and over again. He wasn't mad at Jeremy or trying to pick a fight or acting weird. He was upset. He was sad. 

Jean says, “If we try this and it does not work, our friendship will end.”

“Aren't you listening to me? Do you really want to continue the way we have been? Barely talking, just, like, on eggshells all the time? Or do you want to be honest and try this and if it works, we both have something really great that makes us happy, and if it doesn't then it doesn't, but we're not worse off for it.”

“Maybe you will not be,” Jean says. “But I—” His jaw twitches. “Most of my friends were your friends first. My entire recovery was built on _you_. If you are not part of my life anymore—I am worried that I don't survive without you.”

It's such an honest thing to say that Jeremy almost wants to step back. Sometimes he forgets, or maybe his mind deliberately blocks out, that Jean spent so much of his young adulthood in terrible physical pain. No one thinks about surviving like that except people who have actually almost died. Jeremy would know.

“Jean, we've barely talked all year, and here you are, surviving. And by the way, there is no universe in which I'm not part of your life.” Jeremy wavers. “Unless you don't want me to be.” He wasn't expecting this much resistance. He feels suddenly unsure. Maybe this was presumptuous. What if he has to spend the night here and it's not even with Jean, it's just in Jean's apartment? In the living room? Waiting for the next flight out?

He curls his hand back around the handle of his suitcase and takes a step back.

Jean steps forward, matching him. “Of course I want you to be.”

“I know it's a risk,” Jeremy says. “You're right. We could break up, and then it'd be really awkward at our friends' weddings and holidays and stuff. But that's the end of the risk. They all like you in your own right. And—I hope you don't think that if you needed me, even if we had the most bitter breakup ever, that I wouldn't be there.”

Jean doesn't say anything.

“Jean. Why didn't you tell me?”

“I did tell you,” Jean says. “You said all you wanted to do was hook up.”

It's probably the last thing Jeremy expected him to say. “What? When was this?”

“In South Carolina.”

“You said _you_ thought it was a bad idea. That's why I stopped trying to—but that's not the same thing.”

“No, it was the night before. I told you I liked you, and you didn't answer. Then the next day—I thought sleeping with you, knowing how you felt, knowing you did not reciprocate—I thought that would be a bad idea. For me. Emotionally speaking.”

“Oh, Jean.” Jeremy wants this conversation to be over; he wishes he could hug Jean. He wishes he could go back in time and force himself to pay more attention. “I know this isn't an excuse, but I was really drunk and really embarrassed, and I definitely didn't know that's what you were saying.”

“You said no feelings.”

“I didn't know,” Jeremy says, desperate. “I didn't know, I didn't—I mean it. Whatever happens, you aren't getting rid of me. You have to know that.”

“I do know that.”

“Then say yes,” Jeremy says. “If—I mean, if you want. If you think—I mean, I think it's worth it. Do you think it's worth it?”

Jean looks away again. “Do you remember the first time you took me to Sticks and Nets?”

“After that game I missed, right? Against Pepperdine?”

“Pomona,” Jean corrects.

Jeremy has no idea what Jean is getting at. The only thing he really remembers about that night is agreeing to sign away his future and meeting Henry. How Jean avoided him after. Jesus, maybe the signs were right there the whole time. “I asked you to dance, and you said you weren't interested.” 

“You told the bartender you had agreed to go to the training camp in Houston. Just like that. You didn't even think about the decision.”

“I didn't really make a decision,” Jeremy says. “It was an opportunity. I took it. I hope you're not—I've thought about this, Jean. I think about it literally all the time. I mean, not so precisely—” He feels himself flush. “Not, like, the specifics. But about us—what it would be like, being together? I've been thinking about that since we met, I—I wouldn't risk everything just on a whim. There just—there is nothing I want that isn't about you, and I'm way more scared about the prospect of you just, like, continuing on with your life without knowing how I feel, thinking I'm just—indifferent—”

“That's not what I meant,” Jean says. “I could never understand how someone who seemed to have such a passive role in his own life could have everything you have. But now I get it. You are much more decisive than you seem.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Let me finish. I think sometimes you are so passionate that it takes over your impulse control until someone snaps you out of it, and that is how you end up shouting at a referee or—or kissing me in a hotel room, or—do you remember when we were in West Virginia and you knew I was still awake, so you took me to the hotel pool, and we just swam for a while, and you told me I was safe? I believed you so completely. In that moment, I would have done anything you asked of me. I would have signed for Boston, I would have drowned myself, I would have done—anything. I think before that, I liked you, but there was no moment after it where I was not in love with you. No one has ever—” Jean's jaw works. “I didn't say anything because I was _terrified_. Imagine having to let go of the side of a building and just trust that something will be there to catch you when you know, because this will not be the first time you have tried, that there was nothing there before.”

It's almost too much. Jeremy feels like he's barely treading water again. He can picture exactly the depth of Jean's feelings because they mirror his own perfectly. He takes a breath. It's now or never.

He can't get the words out to ask. If Jean says no, he doesn't know what he'll do. Before this conversation, he probably could have gone home and been miserable for a while and then gotten over it. Now, he has no idea what the result of a rejection would be.

Jeremy squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't want to see Jean's face if it's a no. He wants to step back away from Jean's door and leave without another word if it's a no. He doesn't care if he has to sleep on the fucking sidewalk. Everything he's felt tonight—the churning anxiety that made him leave Jean's place the first time around, the adrenaline at the airport, the terrible panic in the Uber, the hope that powered him through this entire exchange—feels like it's seeping right out of him. He's a dry well, and he has no idea how he's going to come back from it. Part of him wishes he'd just flown home and kept his stupid mouth shut.

“Are you going to cry?” Jean says, sounding startled.

“I cried in the Uber,” Jeremy says. “I cry a lot. You know that.”

Jean laughs. “I know you do. I like that, too, you know.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” Jean says. He sounds closer than he did before. Fingers brush the scar on Jeremy's neck, and then they cup Jeremy's chin. “Open your eyes.” 

Jeremy obeys.

Jean still looks mostly the same as he did a second ago, but something has shifted. It's his jaw, Jeremy thinks, or maybe the way he's making eye contact. Or just that he's much closer now, and he isn't arguing or confessing his feelings, he's just leaning in.

Jean says, “I want this if you want it.”

Jeremy hesitates a second too long. Jean starts to back off, fingers falling away from Jeremy's face, and Jeremy thinks he might actually die right here on Jean's doorstep.

He catches Jean's wrist, tugs him back in, and kisses him. They're only touching at their lips and where Jeremy's hand is curled around Jean's wrist, but Jean's kisses are full-bodied anyway, and Jeremy's brain keeps playing Jean's surprised little intake of breath over and over again. He wishes he could stay here in this moment forever. He thinks: _this is our first kiss_ , and then he thinks, _no, it isn't_ , and then he thinks, _yes, it is_.

It's Jean who separates first. “I,” he says. “Do you want—” 

Jeremy waits, but Jean doesn't finish. He looks unsure. Jeremy has no idea how that can still be the case now, after all this. 

“Jean,” Jeremy says. “This is the only thing I want.”

“And for your dog to live forever.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy says. He laughs, breathy and kind of weird. “That too.”

Jean smiles. Jeremy thinks of all the times he's seen Jean smile on a court, some cross between violent and triumphant. This has shades of that, but it's softer. Possibly happy. Jeremy imagines all the sides of Jean he's going to get to experience now and feels light on his feet, like if Jean weren't holding on to him he'd float up into the air.

“Good,” Jean says, and pulls him inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be one (1) more epilogue-y chapter but i'm leaving the chapter count open until i post it for the drama
> 
> please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo!


	31. epilogue:  morning

Jean wakes from a pleasant dream, stares up at the pale pink ceiling, and for a moment has no idea where he is. 

His phone is vibrating loudly and continuously. That's what woke him up. Jean reaches for the nightstand, blinking sleep out of his eyes, and gets legitimately startled by the arm sprawled over his pillow.

Oh. Right. That's why he feels so nice. All of that was real. Jeremy is in his bed, stirring awake. Jean can't quite believe it. He pauses in his quest for his phone to take in the sight: Jeremy, still unclothed, a sheet draped across his hips, looking for all the world like a Greek statue coming to life. 

The phone keeps vibrating. Jean twists back around to grab it. Jeremy follows him, draping an arm around Jean's waist and pulling him back in.

Jean opens his phone and is immediately besieged with so many notifications that it takes him a full thirty seconds to actually open one. 

“Oh,” he says. 

“What is it?” Jeremy says into Jean's neck, sending shivers down Jean's spine.

“It's--” Jean watches as dozens of tweets come in, Instagram DMs, texts, emails, phone calls. They obscure the photo, and obviously it was late when the picture was taken, but it is still clear what it is a photo of. And who.

Jeremy stiffens. “What?”

“How do they already know?”

Jeremy lets go of Jean, reaches for his own phone. “Oh,” he says. “Oh. Fuck. Jean, I—might have something to apologize for. Again.”

Jean stares at him. “What?”

“Uh—so remember how I told you I took an Uber last night?”

“Yes.”

“And you know how I need to talk through car rides with new people?”

“I was going to ask you about that,” Jean says. “How did you manage not to open the door and jump out of the car at the first stoplight?”

“I might have—told him everything I told you. And he might have recognized me. And you. And he—possibly leaked it to the press?”

“But this is just a photo,” Jean says. “He could not have taken the photo. We would have seen him.”

“No, it's not,” Jeremy says. “Look. Read the story. They know everything.”

Jean looks over Jeremy's shoulder and skims it. Sure enough, it has way more detail than someone just taking a photograph from that distance would have possibly been able to pick up on.

“He must have tipped someone off,” Jean says. 

“Yeah. I—God, I can't believe I fucked this up already. I'm so sorry. What can I do to, like, I don't know, make it up to you or something?”

Jean backs away carefully. “You wanted to keep this secret?”

Jeremy looks up at him. He looks terrified. “You don't mind the entire country knowing you're into guys?”

Jean shrugs. “My team already knows. They are fine with queer women in the sport, right? We will just be the first out men. And I think the press will be a good thing. Like an extra reason to cover me, and extra coverage as an athlete means more opportunities, right?”

“It's just going to be so much extra scrutiny, and there are so few out guys in pro sports, and I know with the Moriyamas—”

“Do me a favor,” Jean says. Now that he knows what Jeremy was actually worried about, he has no reason to be worried himself. He sets his phone back down and pushes Jeremy back down with a hand to his chest. “Never talk about them in my bed again. Are _you_ okay with this?”

“Yes,” Jeremy says. “Yeah. It's fine. I don't care.”

“Good,” Jean says. “I like the idea of everyone knowing.”

“You don't mind that some random Uber driver made money off us?”

“Why not? You don't mind that Nike makes money off you.”

“Yeah, but they pay me.”

“He paid you too,” Jean says. “In wisdom.”

Jeremy laughs. “Jesus, you are so cheesy sometimes.” He curls a hand around the back of Jean's neck to tug him down. “Kiss me.”

Jean does.

*

There is not much food in Jean's kitchen aside from last night's untouched Cuban pastry and a giant bowl of fruit, but neither Jean nor Jeremy is keen on going out to eat, so they take a makeshift breakfast out back to eat it by the beach.

Jean can't quite believe this is his life. He doesn't know how he went from completely devastated to hopeful and happy within all of twelve hours. The last time he stepped on the beach, he thought his entire relationship with Jeremy was over, and now he has basically everything he could want.

“What are you thinking about?” Jeremy asks. They have settled in beach chairs they dragged together to make one big beach chair. It isn't very comfortable, but Jeremy doesn't seem to care, and Jean doesn't, either. They've made their way through two mangoes and half a pineapple. Jean's lips sting from the acid.

“The future,” Jean says. 

“In a good way or a bad way?”

It's hard to say. Jean was anxious even before he came to America; such is life with parents who are desperate for money. But right now, all of Jean's anxieties feel eminently conquerable. He is anxious about normal things, like winning at exy and what will happen when Laila proposes. 

He is thinking about all the life he still has to live, and about living all of it with Jeremy. The Olympics are this summer: surely he and Jeremy will be called up to the national team, and then they will win gold. Jean savors the idea of it, winning with Jeremy and Kevin in front of him, Laila at his back, Thea or Theo or both at his side. 

And maybe eventually, he can convince Jeremy to go on road trips with him. They will start small: Miami to Orlando or Boston to New York, and then maybe Miami to Atlanta. He pictures Jeremy bolting awake, gasping for breath, saying, talk to me, distract me; and, years later, Jeremy learning to drive and spending a whole year on driver's ed but eventually getting it. 

Laila and Alvarez's wedding, probably a huge affair, probably featuring both their big families and all the Trojans either of them have ever played with and other random teammates for good measure. Later, other weddings: Katie wants to get married, Theo probably never will, Kevin definitely will. Jean will have to interact with people Jean doesn't like, like Andrew Minyard, and people Jean doesn't like to look at, like Neil Josten, but with the threat of the Moriyamas minimized, Jean doesn't feel all that vindictive about either one of them anymore.

Maybe Jean and Jeremy will both move back to L.A. eventually, start their future together for real. Jeremy won't be able to believe that they are both alive. Jean won't be able to believe that they are both happy. 

“A good way, I think.”

Jeremy smiles and leans over. “Good.” 

Jeremy laughs instead of kissing Jean properly, but Jean almost likes that better. Jeremy's lips taste like fruit, too. 

“Has anyone ever told you it's horrifically impractical to live in a beach house in Miami full time?”

Jean lies back in his chair. “All the time.”

“You're so ridiculous, you know that?”

Jean loves the beach. “People tell me that, too.”

Jeremy rests his head on Jean's chest, and Jean can't help himself. He curls his fingers in Jeremy's hair.

“Do you hear that?” Jean asks.

“What?”

Jean closes his eyes. “Seagulls.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made a two hour long playlist for each part of this fic but the three most important songs on those playlists are: [mary by big thief](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G5OV1JPqlNQ) (where the title comes from! it is a double entendre because they also play a sport in this fic hehe), [put your money on me by arcade fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dHC6I7v-1Pc), and [swim good by frank ocean](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O-TE2fFmkyg).
> 
> thank you all for reading! i hope this has been a positive experience for you all, and please tune in monday when my big bang fic is posted (fingers crossed i actually finish it)
> 
> come say hi on [tumblr](http://wilsherejack.tumblr.com)! please leave a comment if you enjoyed or spotted a typo.


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